


Maybe Moth Will Be Our Always

by poetatertot



Series: The Fault In Our Moths [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because even cryptids deserve love, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Cryptid Hunters, Dreamsharing, Dreamwalking, Flesh eating, Frat Boy Shiro, Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Injuries, Mothman is there, Self-Mutilation, Transformation, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 109,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetatertot/pseuds/poetatertot
Summary: Sophomore year of college should be about parties, passing finals, and playing chicken with the campus rulebook. So what's Keith doing in the woods with Pidge? And what about that cute guy he's partnered with for the big science project?This isn't going to be an easy year. Here's hoping Mothman minds his own business long enough for Keith to survive it all.





	1. The Good, The Bad, and The Mothy

It starts, as many things in life do, with a seed.

Keith snags another handful from the bag and pours them into his lap, plucking out a particularly fat one with an open shell. He’ll never get over the satisfaction in splintering them in half, cracking away solid resistance to bare the soft meat beneath. He pops several in his mouth at once and crunches the salty-sweetness slowly. _Pistachios._

"There's something really gross about the way you eat," Pidge remarks, side-eyeing him. Her own hands snap apart pistachio after pistachio with clean, careful precision; she lays the nutmeat on one thigh and drops the shells into a pile between them. "You don't have to crush them like that, you know."

"I know." Keith gathers up a handful of his own shells and throws them over the edge, letting them fall as they will into the ravine below. He never watches them long enough to see where they land. "Maybe I just like it this way."

The beginning of their sophomore year of college feels a lot like the first at that time: moving into a new dorm with new rules, joining new classes. Keith packs all of his clothes unthinkingly and realizes only after a third of the drive that his non-Arizona clothes are all missing. He has to drive back and get them.

The only discernible difference is age. He knows better than to hope for certain things, like good cafeteria food or a practice test before the midterm.

He knows better than to believe in fantasies.

Icy wind knifes the heat from their cheeks, brushing cold fingers against pink noses and unprotected ears. Pidge tucks her second jacket closer to her tiny body and sighs. Her breath swirls out in a rush of steam that curls away and dissipates in the oncoming darkness— darkness rapidly swarming over the redwood treetops to swallow everything.

"It's getting late," she finally says, when their fingers brush salt and crumbled shells. The bag, exhausted of its treasure, crunches up like a withered skin in Keith's fist. "We should go back inside."

"Yeah," he mutters reluctantly. "I guess."

The hike up the hill towards their college apartments is never an easy one. They fumble up a slope that only ever was created for downward movement, sneakers sliding through mud and dead leaves. Keith reaches to steady himself on a tree and scrapes one palm open.

"Fuck." He peers between his legs at Pidge, who's fighting a particularly tangly fern. "Why do we go this way?"

"Aesthetic," she deadpans, ripping herself free with a soft snap. "Keep moving."

The relief in seeing creamy white walls and red-orange plaster smothers itself against the sudden onslaught of noise pouring from college windows. The crisp air sours with the promise of exhaustive nights and heavy-handed monotony. Keith flares his nostrils and catches whiff of an unmistakable skunky smell wafting from one bottom-floor window. _Eau de collége._

"I'll see you in the morning," Pidge says. She readjusts her sweatshirt and scowls at the second-floor balcony covered in glittery window decals. "It's time to face the music."

"It could be worse," Keith reminds her. He slams the pistachio bag into the trash with a resolving crunch. "You could have a cryptid as a roommate."

"I thought you said worse, not better." She frowns. "And I wouldn't slander cryptids like that. They have feelings too, y'know."

"Sure." Keith jams his fingerless gloves back into his pockets. "See you."

He walks past the first clump of buildings, following their backsides that neighbor up to the ravine. The light from people's rooms spills softly over the wet terrain, dipping tree-branches and muddled earth in melted butter. It's relaxing, just listening to his own breath as he makes the last minute uphill to his own apartment.

_Snap._

Almost relaxing.

The reflex is ingrained in his muscles— memories of cuts and bruises that he can't forget even if his skin pinks over and the scars fade away. Heavy, raspy breathing takes him back to those afternoons behind the bleachers, behind the dumpster, behind the portable classrooms—places dark and unseen, where he tasted blood more than anything else.

He squares his shoulders and swings around, ready to give a black eye to whoever is creeping up on him and _what the fuck—_

Keith has seen plenty of shit. In his first week of freshman year he encountered at least four people vomiting in his bathroom toilet (none of which he knew) and has already had a close run-in with the homeless guy who hangs out under the bridge. _He likes to pick his teeth with chicken bones. Chicken bones, Pidge. I know what I saw._

But all the bone-picking and puking in the world couldn't prepare him for coming face-to-face with this.

Big, bulbous eyes that glow stoplight-red. A prickly, hairy, warped face with bristling hairs jutting out. Long, razor-thin proboscis curling out towards Keith, twitching, _smelling him_.

Keith thought he would be proud of the first cryptid encounter he ever had. He imagined himself taking photos, or fighting it off in a story of heroic regale. He never expected to scream.

"Oh my god," he chokes, tripping back over a knot. He slips back onto his ass and immediately feels cold mud squelching through his jeans. "Oh my God, what the _fuck—_ "

Mothman. He was face-to-face with fucking _Mothman_.

There's just enough light to see how it recoils and makes the most awful buzzing noise Keith has ever heard. Like a thousand mosquitoes put into a tiny jar, or maybe a hornet's nest smashed open with a bat. The buzzing spikes into his skull like an ice pick. Christ, _he can't move._

There's a jarring impact that throbs up his whole side. He's fallen over. Cold mud begins to seep through his layers to wet the skin beneath. Keith opens his mouth and gasps for air but draws on nothing.

Mothman takes a step closer. Its proboscis twitches like another limb, trailing for Keith's still frame. _The blood,_ part of his brain screams. _It smells the blood_.

He wants to move, to get up and hightail it, but every limb has turned to stone. He couldn't move if he tried.

Mothman takes another step. And another.

 _A cryptid is going to fucking eat me_ , Keith thinks frantically. _There won't even be enough of my body for Pidge to dissect._

"Keith? You out here?"

Mothman recoils with a hiss. Its shiny arms and legs clack as they thrash, skittering backwards into the mud. Red eyes flash bright for a moment and then it's gone. Disappeared into the darkness.

Keith blinks once, twice. Sucks in a strangled breath of air.

"Here you are. What gives, man? You alright?"

Battered blue sneakers trudge into Keith's line of vision, connecting to a pair of old jeans. Long legs bend at the kneecap and a brown, pointed face comes into his vision. Soft light on blue eyes. _Lance._ For once, he couldn't be happier to see the guy.

Keith's arms ache, tingling from fingertip all the way into his shoulders when he finally tries to move. He feels like he's woken from a long sleep, and when he licks his lips all he can taste is cold sweat.

"Keith?" Lance frowns and waves a hand in front of his face. "Buddy?"

"'M fine," he croaks, jerking away from his roommate's grip. The whole world spins dangerously, ready to tilt on a right angle, and Lance's arm shoots out to grab him by the elbow.  
  
"Sure you are." Lance looks him up and down, taking in the caked mud on his jacket and the twigs in his hair. "Did you get in a fight with a bear or something? You look awful."

Keith grimaces and swipes his hands along his front. The clods of dirt crumble away from his hands and scrape into the deep cuts there, stinging exposed flesh. _Ouch._ "None of your business."

Lance scowls even further but doesn’t argue. If Keith wants help he'll ask for it and to hell with anyone jumping to save him otherwise. _So sue me_ , he thinks irritably, watching the Cuban boy swing around and stomp back inside. _I didn't ask for your help._ But still..

He sucks in a soft breath and savors the feel of cold air in his weak lungs. The whole sky has filled with blackness and stars, spilling ink through the treeline. If he holds his breath he can hear the sounds of the forest coming to life just beyond the light's reach. A world beyond the human-built walls of his own.

Keith imagines that huge, hulking _thing_ moving through the trees. He swallows bile and turns his back on the ravine as quickly as he dares. And if he runs for the light of his apartment, well, nobody has to know except him.

.

"You _what_ ?" Pidge's arms spasm outward from her body as if electrocuted, knocking over her orange juice into her waffles. "Keith, _holy shit_ , why didn't you come get me?"

"I didn't want to worry you," he mumbles weakly, shying away from her grabby little hands. "Um, Pidge. Your waffles?"

"I can't _believe_ this," she hisses. Keith silently passes over the napkin dispenser and she rips out a huge chunk of them to slap on the table. They soak immediately, blending into the waffle soup. "After all the research I've done. Countless hours slaving away through the night, searching and pinpointing, and I don't even get to see him! This is bullshit."  
  
Keith remembers that awful skull-splintering buzzing, the black curve of feelers reaching to taste his blood. He shudders. "Call me crazy, but I don't think he was looking to sign autographs."

Pidge mutters something inaudible under her breath. She spears a dry sausage with a ferocity that makes Keith flinch, cramming the whole piece into her mouth. He can practically _see_ the gears working overtime as she chews with her mouth open.

In hindsight, meeting Mothman could be construed as cool. Cool, maybe, in the sense that you stick your hands under a boiling tap and feel cold for a split-second before your skin burns off. After a night of reliving the trauma in his bunk bed, Keith is equal parts baffled by his encounter and mortified for his uselessness in gleaning any more information. How many times do you fucking meet Mothman while going out on a walk?

Pidge echoes his thoughts. "We've been in these woods for over a year," she growls through her mouthful of food. "A year, and we've never seen any signs of a big-ass bug before. What gives?"

Keith's hand throbs in memory. He slides his sleeve down further to hide the bandage he wrapped in the bathroom. "I did cut myself. The blood got on a tree when we were coming back home."

"True.." Pidge gulps down the remnants of her juice and smacks the cup on the table. "That's that, then. I've decided."

"Decided," Keith echoes flatly. "On what, exactly?" He has a sinking feeling he knows where this is going to go and prays to every listening deity for him to be wrong.

"We're going to find Mothman again." Pidge leans back in her seat and smiles beatifically, teeth glinting with orange juice residue. "You're going to lead me right to him."

.

The next day, it rains.

Keith wakes to soft pattering at his windowpane, beating wood dust away from where it collects at the sill. He lies in bed for a while and peeks out through the bunk railing slats to watch the rain fall.

 _Mothman lives out there somewhere._ Keith tries to imagine how a big bugman could possibly waste his days and fails. Does he have a shell he hides in? A tree he hangs from like a butterfly in chrysalis? He has no idea. All he knows is that the forest he's grown to adore has become somewhere he cannot go.

Below him, Lance sighs noisily in his sleep and rolls over. "Don't put the crabs there," he slurs faintly, body twitching under the sheets. "N-no.. Don't.."  
Keith wiggles further into his blankets. _There's nothing to be done about it now_ , he tells himself, tucking the comforter around his nose. _Just go back to sleep._

He closes his eyes and dreams in shades of red.

 

Morning breaks in grayscale and dribbles water the color of lead over every surface, sucking saturation free of the atmosphere. Keith trudges to his 8 am section as fast as he can in hopes of escaping the cold. His fingertips tingle where the cold bites at them; he clenches his backpack straps a little tighter, moves a little faster. _Almost there now._

How anyone can get up before the sunrise is beyond him. He's been forcing himself for two weeks now and still aches every time he moves to shut off his alarm. There's never enough time to grab breakfast before biology so he goes hungry for the first two hours of the day, stomach growling while his TA's drone about hormones and enzyme pathways.

Keith drags his gaze up from his notebook. He may only be in the second row but it's nearly impossible to see; somehow, in his haze of arriving on time, he sat down right behind the biggest dude in the room. Half the board is blocked by square shoulders and an undercut. Keith scowls and settles into a permanent neck crick to see around him.

"Alright," the teacher assistant says, standing back from the board. "Now that class is in full swing, I'm going to split you guys into discussion pairs. Normally we'd be in groups but there aren't that many of you.." She trails off, smiling sheepishly. "Luck of the draw, right guys?"

 _More like bad luck,_ Keith thinks sourly. He would have never willingly signed for an 8am, but sleeping through the first couple hours of registration doesn't leave a guy with a lot of good options.

"You'll be randomly assigned," she continues, shuffling papers on the podium. "Each week, a pair of you will get up and talk about one of the assigned research papers to the rest of the class. We should be done before midterms to have room for review.."  
  
Keith tunes her out to go back to scribbling in the margins of his notes. There's an indent around the hole-punches where his pens have pressed deep, marking black grooves round and round the cuts. Absentmindedly, he begins to doodle a pair of insect wings.

"..And you'll be with Keith."

 _Huh?_ His head snaps up and smacks square into someone else's chin. "Fuck!" He spits, rubbing one hand over his crown. He peeks up through mussed bangs at the guy in front of him. The man smiles bashfully, wincing as his own hand rubs his jaw.

"Sorry about that," he says, leaning back. "Um. Keith, right?"

"Yeah." Keith frowns, realizing he missed the call. "And you're.."  
  
"Takashi Shirogane. But you don't have to call me that," he says, waving one hand. "Everyone just calls me Shiro."

"Shiro," Keith echoes. He runs his tongue over his teeth. "Sure. Alright." He doesn't miss the Greek-lettered snapback pressed over wet hair, or the defined jawline. He _definitely_ can't miss Shiro's biceps, which lurk under his rolled-up sweatshirt sleeves like a juicy secret.

Shiro takes charge of the situation before Keith can embarrass himself ogling. Since their TA insisted on them finding the papers in person, they arrange to meet up again later in the week to peruse the science library. _It's good practice,_ the TA says, flipping her ponytail. Never mind that they live in the twenty-first century and everything Keith needs to know is online.

"Let's trade phone numbers," Shiro suggests. He leans into Keith's space before he can think to agree, passing his open iPhone. Keith takes it with wooden fingers and does his best not to inhale too hard. Shiro smells spicy and clean, like the wet redwoods just outside. It's a little dizzying.

"Thanks," Keith squeaks, taking back his own phone. He stares dumbly at the string of numbers saved into it before remembering to lift his head and smile. Shiro beams back with a mouthful of perfect teeth and nearly blinds him. _Golden boy_ , he thinks faintly. _Shiro is a golden boy._

"I have another section right now so I have to get going,” Shiro apologizes. He towers over Keith when he stands, heaving up his backpack onto one shoulder. “See you around?”

Keith nods dumbly. “Yeah.”

“Great,” Shiro breathes, readjusting his snapback. He waves and rushes for the door, moving through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. Keith sits back in his seat with a long sigh.

 _This is going to be a long quarter._ Whether or not that's a bad thing remains to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is starting out as my nano writing project and will be ongoing past November as long as people are interested. hope you all like moth jokes because it's about to get real buggy in here
> 
> visit me on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	2. Here's That First Moth Again

"So," Pidge begins. They've holed up in her bedroom for the time being, snacks dragged in from the kitchen to sprawl out on the carpet. Keith crunches on potato chips from her galaxy bedspread and stares out the window. "Give me all the details."  
  
"I've already told you everything," he sighs, fishing out another big one. The salt on his lips tingles when he licks it away. "It was really big, and ugly. Red eyes. I was kind of busy trying not to die, okay?"

"But there's _more,_ " Pidge insists. She's pulled out her special journal for the interrogation — an old, handbound thing, with more coffee stains than any self-respecting book should have. "Little things, Keith. We have to take everything into account." She clicks her pen impatiently against her thigh.

 _Little things._ In Keith's opinion nothing could be considered _little_ about Mothman. He's gone over the encounter in his head enough times to confuse himself, mixing in things that might or might not have happened. _He smelled like rotting wood. He had hulking muscles and too many arms. He had more hair on his face than Keith's aunt._

Okay, maybe not that last one.

"I don't know," he mutters, resting his chin on tucked legs. "His body was really shiny?"

"Is that a statement or a question?" Pidge raises an eyebrow. "I mean, of course he was shiny. That's what exoskeletons look like, Keith. It's like packaging yourself in plastic."

"You said little details!" Keith huffs, exasperated. "It all happened really fast, okay? One minute he wasn't there and the next—" He swallows. "Yeah."

"Super stealth and speed," Pidge mutters, writing something in her chicken scratch. "Okay. What else?"

_A big proboscis reaching for Keith's still body like an arm. Heavy breathing and thick buzzing. Numbness spreading over Keith in a cold, sticky shower._

"He didn't jump me," Keith murmurs distantly. "He mostly just stood there and stared. It was only after he smelled the blood or something that he tried to get closer." But even then, Keith hadn't instantly become minced meat. Mothman had taken his time checking him out.

Pidge chews on the end of her pen. "So no attempts made to eat you."

"Pidge, he wasn't coming by just to _say hey_."

"Maybe not, but how would you know?" She retorts. "If he didn't open his mouth or try to suck out your insides then he wasn't eating." She wrinkles her brow. "Does Mothman even have a mouth?"

"I don't know! It was dark!" Keith shoves another handful of chips in his mouth and ignores how crumbs scatter onto the comforter. "Why don't you ask him yourself or something?"

"Because _I'm_ not the one lucky enough to meet a cryptid! You should be _grateful_ , Keith, shit like this never happens to normies—”  
  
"You calling me weird _,_ Pidge?"

"I ain’t calling you a happy-go-lucky nimrod!" She drawls, flicking her pen at him. "Pass me some chips would you? I bought those with my own money."

Keith leans in obediently to place two chips in Pidge's mouth. She chews on them slowly, satisfied. "How exactly is this going to help?" He asks, popping a few more in his own maw. "I thought you were just going to drag me back out into the woods."  
  
Pidge shakes her head and picks at a hole in her jeans with the pen ballpoint. "I'm building a profile so we can figure out how to best approach him. I'm thinking that maybe if we replicate the situation, he'll come out of hiding again. It worked once, right?"  
  
"Replicate," Keith echoes. As if nearly dying once wasn't enough. "You want me to go back into the woods and stand around? Hope he'll jump at me once I throw a few more pistachios?"

"Don't be silly," she snaps. "We don't even know if he's a vegetarian."

Keith groans, abandoning the chips to flop onto his back. He stares at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. "Some plan."

The truth is, he hasn't dared walk behind the apartments since that night. Even staring out the window at night makes him anxious now; glowing eyes and gargantuan insect bodies float at the edge of his vision if he stares for too long, lurking just beyond what he can see. Waiting, watching. _Taunting._

Yeah, no. He'd much rather walk the paved university paths than risk a short-cut now. His life is too precious for another meeting with Mothman, no matter what Pidge wants him to believe.

"No worries," she says, crawling from her desk chair onto the bed to lay next to him. Her hair tickles his neck where she lies too close, squishing them together on a twin mattress built for one. "You won't be alone this time. I'll be watching from nearby to intercept if things get dicey."

"Comforting," Keith mutters. "Real comforting."

They're interrupted from dozing off by a soft knock on the door, followed by the familiar jingle of jewelry. Pidge scowls and curls up on her side like a squirrel, hiding her head between her knees. Keith snickers quietly.

"You okay in there?" Allura chirps from the other side of the door. "I heard yelling earlier."  
  
"We're fine," Pidge calls. She lifts her head from between her legs and gives Keith a withering look. "It's all safe here."

"Just making sure," Allura responds cheerfully. There's a long pause only broken by the shuffling of socks and more jingling. Keith clears his throat softly and sits up, uncertain whether or not to get the door. Pidge shakes her head.

"I'll come out in a bit," she says, rolling her eyes. "Thanks for checking in."  
  
"Sure! See you later." The jingling echoes down the hallway and fades behind a shut door. Pidge rolls on her side and groans, low and long. Keith smirks and jabs her with one foot.

"She means well," he admonishes, using a fake stern voice. Pidge glares at him from a mess of chip dust and rumpled sheets.  
  
"Just you wait," she sniffs. "Keep talking and I'll let Mothman eat you."

.

By the time Keith has finished all of his classes for the day, the sun is more than halfway in its descent, glancing sunbeams off painted murals and beds of grass. After the rain earlier in the week there are tiny wildflowers springing up between cracks of cement and plaster, wriggling their way into the warmth. Keith steps out of the computer lab and nearly blinds himself looking at everything.

In the daylight, the walk up the hill to his apartment feels utterly innocuous. How could anything dangerous lurk in the woods when the apartments here thrum with low bass and laughter? If he breathes deeply enough he can even smell french fries at the nearby cafe, hear the shouts of orders over the din of students walking to and from class. It all seems so _safe._

"I’m back," he announces, pushing open the sliding-glass to his first-floor flat. A rush of fruity-savory smell and cooking chicken wafts over him, heating his face and instantly making his mouth water. Hunk looks up from the kitchen stove and smiles.

"Hey, Keith," he greets, waving a spatula. "How do you feel about sweet-and-sour chicken? I need to use up this pineapple I bought before it goes bad. You haven't already made dinner plans, right?"

"Nope." He drops his backpack onto one of the university-standard couches and shuffles over to the fridge for a Coke. "Pidge is busy tonight with Pathfinder. I was just gonna go to the dining hall alone." He cracks the can open and chugs a quarter of it immediately. "Unless..?"

"Yes, I'm asking you to eat my food," Hunk laughs. "There's enough here for all of us. My treat." He sashays across the kitchen floor with an admirable amount of grace, grabbing spices here and dishes of cut vegetables there. Keith stands at the edge of the tile and does his best not to get in the way.

Really, their arrangement is the best thing that could've happened to Keith. After a solid year of making almost no friends (save for Pidge, who lived in the apartment directly above Keith's and forced him to be her friend after he wore his glow-in-the-dark Bigfoot shirt to their building's mandatory meeting) Keith was ready to give up. He refused to be stuck with his roommate Rolo _again_ — the guy had a bad habit of sexiling Keith whenever he felt like it, and always made the room smell like weed. And no matter how many times he argued to housing they wouldn't let him room with the opposite sex. _School regulations_ , the woman at the front desk droned.

But then, two weeks before the application was due, Keith was approached by Lance. Keith can still remember how desperate he looked, chewing on his lips with big under-eye circles. Apparently their third roommate had dropped out randomly, leaving them short one body for a double-single flat combo.  
  
"You've gotta room with me, man," Lance had begged. He sat next to Keith every day for a whole week in their general chemistry lecture, harrowing him over it with bribes. _I never see you sitting with anyone else. If you room with me, my best friend will cook you food. Our bathroom is always clean too, I swear._

So the last part wasn't exactly true, but what else was Keith going to do? He refused to leave his housemates up to chance again. He signed without reading the fine print too hard.

Now, several weeks into the new school year, he can see why nobody else agreed to be Lance's roommate.

For all the effort the guy puts into his face, Keith has never roomed with anyone messier. _Ever._ Lance's shit flows freely from his dressers onto the floor, surrounding his bedposts like a moat no soldier would risk crossing. There are old socks and food wrappers, scattered papers and dryer sheets. Once, in Keith's effort to kick aside the mess enough to get the bedroom door open, he stepped on a stud earring. It went straight through his socks into his foot.

"The mess gives me anxiety," Hunk admitted when Keith brought it up at breakfast. "That's why I asked for a single. I love Lance, but I couldn't do another year with.. _that._ "

So it's up to Keith now, or something. He balances his Coke in one hand and uses the other to muscle against the door, forcing it through a small sea of unidentifiable objects. After a few good seconds of pushing there's enough space for him to slip inside.

At least the invisible line around his own desk and dresser has upheld. Keith swings his chair out and sits backwards in it, cracking open his laptop to a view of his backyard during the sunrise. The vast spread of colors and light are a far cry from the redwoods outside his window, and a tiny pang of homesickness startles where it squeezes his ribs.

There's nothing new in either of Keith's mail inboxes, but when he clicks open Facebook he nearly chokes on a mouthful of soda.

_One new friend request: Takashi Shirogane._

"Is this weird?" Keith breathes, shifting in his seat to get a better look. "This might be weird." He can't help but click on Shiro's profile anyway.

 _Twenty. Birthday: February 29th._ Shiro beams up at Keith from his profile photo, one muscular arm wrapped around a thinner guy with glasses and a mop of shaggy, brown hair. Out of all of his fratwear he just looks like some young, Instagram-worthy bodybuilder. Keith reminds himself to breathe.

He accepts the friend request before he can psyche himself out and promptly exits the tab. That open can of worms is something he can look into another time — probably with Pidge over one shoulder, demanding he snoop through every photo album available. _What am I doing here, exactly?_

Keith slumps against his desk and stares at his wall calendar. There's only one date marked so far for September.

_Meet-up with Shiro. 3:30PM._

"Play it cool," he mutters to himself and closes his eyes. "Whatever that means."

.

They agree to meet at a coffee stand near the science library so Shiro can get a handle on his caffeine addiction and Keith can grab some late lunch. The noise outside the nearby lecture hall swells to a cacophony — the in-between lectures time — and Keith finds himself tucked slightly closer to Shiro than he would dare, their knees bumping under the table. The smell of his cologne and dark roast combine to tickle at the back of Keith's nose, warming him under the collar even though a sharp breeze rustles their jackets. Shiro sits oblivious to everything and slurps down his lifeblood.

"You weren't kidding," Keith remarks, watching him slam the empty cup onto the table. He's barely halfway through his turkey sandwich, and Shiro's gone and chugged a medium dark roast with an extra shot. _MCD majors, man._ "You really _do_ have a problem."

"Don't remind me," Shiro grimaces. He traces one thumb around the rim of the cup and stares forlornly into its empty bottom. "Every time I go visit home my mother throws a fit over it. Says I'm going to stop my heart one day."

Keith smiles in spite of his sweaty palms. "Sounds like she means well." Shiro rolls his eyes and smiles crookedly.

"Yeah, I guess. You know how moms are."

 _Not really,_ part of Keith's brain chirps, but he's grateful for his brain-to-mouth filter for stopping that one at the pass. He's found in the past decade or so that casually dropping comments about his family predicament doesn't make good small talk, no matter how comfortable he feels about it. "Yeah," he says. "I know what you mean."

"I come from just over the hill," Shiro supplies cheerfully. He crushes his cup casually in one fist with as much effort as Keith might take to crumple a napkin. "So even if I don't go visit, she'll eventually come by to hassle me. She's always worried I'm not taking care of myself." He cocks his head to the side. "What about you?"

Keith takes a huge bite of sandwich to mull over the question. What about him? _I'm a desert baby living with my aunt and uncle outside of Phoenix. I have a pet cat and no friends for about a hundred miles, unless you count our old neighbor Billy and his wife Sarah._ He settles on "Family's in Arizona," and whatever tone he carries, Shiro knows better than to push.

If there's anything Keith has learned over the past twenty minutes or so, it's that Shiro isn't pushy about _anything._ He rides waves of calm control even though his stubble and rumpled frat sweatshirt suggest otherwise, all straight smiles and easy aura. Four people have stopped by to say hello in the time they’ve sat at the table shooting shit.

Keith sits back and finishes off his turkey-and-provolone as Person Number Five strolls by and stops to chat. _It's like watching the sun shine_ , he thinks absently. Shiro radiates warmth and light the way some people radiate bad auras. _A big, bulky sun._

When the last person drifts away into the lecture hall, Shiro turns and cracks a warm grin. "You ready to do some book hunting?"

Keith smiles in spite of himself, crumpling his wrapper in his fist. "Sure."

 

The science library itself was clearly constructed out of love for the woods it lives in; Keith steps through glass doors and inhales the soft must of books and old carpeting, redwoods and soft earth drifting through the open windows. Wall-to-floor glass allows the light to pour in almost brighter than the overhead lights, filling every corner with light and sound. He sucks in another soft breath and tastes suspended dust, earthy and light on his tongue.

"The archives are on the ground floor," Shiro murmurs, making a turn for the staircase. Keith trails after him obediently, happy to revel in the silence. As much as he likes hearing Shiro talk away, the effort of speaking under his gaze makes Keith's palms itch under his gloves.

They set their things down and split up between two aisles of books. Keith ducks between rows thickly furnished with tomes older than him, gladly letting the density of paper and binding swallow him up. Where another might feel claustrophobic between the narrow shelves he only feels peaceful. The effect is not unlike walking through the forest at sunset, when the world is cooling and quieting of human static.

 _Or how it used to feel,_ he thinks bitterly. He runs one thumb over a thick volume on freshwater fisheries and chews his bottom lip. _That's all gone now._

He's halfway through a book on microbiology when his phone buzzes in his back pocket.

**_Pidgey: hey what r u doing rn_ **

Keith glances up. Two rows over he can see Shiro shuffling through god-knows-what, thumbing pages gently. His nose is wrinkled ever so slightly with the effort of his focus, and as Keith watches, he licks one lip and sucks it into his mouth. Keith flushes and looks away.

**_Chief Keef: library w/ shiro. why?_ **

**_Pidgey: ohh ur meaty boy ;-) ok. how long until u done?_ **

Keith can feel his face getting warmer and refuses to think about what sort of expression he's making. It's a good thing there's nobody around to see.

**_Chief Keef: idk. a half hour? why??_ **

**_Chief Keef: and he is NOT my meaty boy_ **

**_Pidgey: ok when ur done come to my apt. ill leave the sliding glass open for u_ **

**_Pidgey: were gonna start project moth part 2_ **

The last thing Keith needs in his intensive schedule. Too bad Pidge never takes no for an answer.

He scowls in spite of himself and crams the phone back into his skinny jeans. _I am not dying today,_ he tells himself, rifling through his book without reading it. _Not for Mothman._

.

"You know, when I talked about using pistachios as bait I was _kidding_ , right?"

"Shut up and help me with this," Pidge snaps. "Pass that baggie of rubber bands, would you?"

They stand at the base of a tree. The shadows are already long, stretching to cool the mossy forest floor and pitch everything into the oncoming night. Keith suspends one pistachio between his teeth and rifles through Pidge's small backpack for the Ziploc in question.

 _The plan will be simple_ , Pidge had announced when he busted into her bedroom. She already had been packing the bag at that time, bouncing from one corner of her room to the other to grab supplies seemingly at random. _Cheezits, rubber bands, wrapping plastic, a Swiss-army knife._ Keith does his best not to think about what that last one implies. _We'll just replicate what we did on Sunday — the route, the snacks, everything._

"Since we don't know exactly what drew him to you, we'll have to leave a little bit of everything," Pidge explains briskly. She lets a rubber band snap back into place, securing the open Ziploc of Keith's hair to a low branch. "A little hair here, a little saliva there." She steps back and surveys her handiwork thoughtfully. "Come here a sec?"

Keith shuffles closer. "What— _ow_!"

Pidge rubs the edge of the swiss-army knife against the outside of the bag, smearing it grotesquely with his blood. Keith scowls through the press of his cut thumb to his lips.

"There. That should do it."

"You think?" Keith says flatly. "So what, we go hang out in a tree and wait for him?"

"Don't be silly." She slides the swiss-army knife shut with a soft _click_ and stoles it away in one pocket. "We're going to wait from high ground."

The walk along their usual path is one ridden with extra shadows and soft rustling, though no wind is present. Keith can't help the anxious looks he throws over his shoulder at every movement; even with scarcely a breeze, the forest seems to thrum, _alive_ with some energy he refuses to name. _It knows something_ , part of him frantically screams. _It knows. Now you've gone and done it._

They end up halfway up the ridge from where they placed the last baggie, squatting in the undergrowth. The bush they've tucked themselves into is thick enough that Keith can't see very well through the leaves, but just tangly enough to make an escape difficult. _Everything about this is wrong._

But Pidge is insistent. She plucks at the sprouted grass between her sneakers and braids the strands, seemingly indifferent to how night swamps over their shoulders and oozes down treetops like sludge. The stars come out one by one to glitter, cold pinpricks observing from a safe distance. The moon is barely a sliver in the dark — the remnants of yesterday's new moon, a single silvery slash in the dark.

A half hour passes. Thirty-five minutes. Forty. Keith's thighs begin to burn where he kneels awkwardly in the dirt, his kneecaps aching from pressing against hard ground. He tries to shift into a more comfortable position and accidentally stirs up dead needles.

 _"Shh,_ " Pidge hisses. Her eyes dart between Keith and the ravine below frantically. "What if you let him know we're here?"

"What, that isn't what you wanted?" He spits back. He's pretty sure that there are bugs crawling up his pant legs, and his hair drags across his tongue where the breeze throws it into his face. "Thought you wanted Mothman's autograph or something—"  
  
"I can't get his autograph if he isn't _friendly_ , how dumb do you think I am—"  
  
"You're asking me this _now_ ?" He leans in close enough to see how Pidge’s eyes glitter behind her glasses. She looks like a spiteful little forest goblin decked out in black and green. "After we left _goodie bags_ of my hair and blood?"

"It's all part of science." Pidge's lips curls sharply. "Why are you being so obstinate about this? Don't you want to know more about him? He approached _you_ , Keith."  
  
"But what if I don't _want_ to know him?" Keith stares at her but all he can see is that rigid appendage reaching for his flesh, prickly hairs jutting out of a furred head. "Pidge. I have a bad feeling about this—"

_Crack._

_No!_ Keith's head whips around fast enough to sting. He sucks in one long, rattling breath. _Not now._

"It can't be," Pidge breathes. Keith can feel her trembling where their arms suddenly brush, her leaning in further through the bush's coverage. "It _worked._ "

There's barely enough light to see. Keith strains his eyes, scraping across the blurry darkness of muddled foliage. He can't see the bag but he knows where it's tied, circled with a bright red rubber band to one odd treelimb.

Two feet in front of it, however, is a hulking figure too large for any shadow to hide it. The faintest outline of moonlight traces a hairy frame, defining arms that bulge with rigid muscle and a huge, bulbous head. Soft clicks and buzzes carry through the quiet and send goosebumps crawling down Keith's spine.

Red eyes in the darkness.

_Mothman._

"Keith." Shaking hands pat at his forearm. "Get my bag.. quickly. There's a night-provisioned camera in the front pocket."

Keith scrabbles at the dirt on his other side desperately. He can't help but be caught between the darkness of the bushes and the gleaming red eyes ahead of them, unable to focus on either completely. He can feel his heart thrumming in his ribs, his throat, his _ears_ , mixing with a low, rumbling buzzing that hangs like white static over everything. _Faster, faster_ , a voice hisses in his head. _Move faster._

But even in the dark he can tell that the bag has caught on one of the snagging branches of the bush. He tugs frantically at it but it won't slip free, the front pocket facing away where it's caught in the undergrowth.

"Move, dammit!" He snarls too loud, breaking twigs in his effort to rip the bag free.

The buzzing stops.

Keith goes dead-still in an instant. His hands are shaking ever so slightly around the zipper, metal biting into his fingers where he doesn't dare unzip further. Slowly, so slowly, he lifts his head to peek through the bush leaves.

The red eyes are gone.

 _Get out,_ now. _Get out, get out, get out—_

The smell of sickly-sweet flowers and heavy redwood must hangs over them suddenly, clouding Keith's nose and mouth with fetid fog. He coughs, wets his lips, turns to look at Pidge. She isn't looking at him, but has her mouth wide open to stare past him, behind him.

"Don't turn around," she breathes. In the faint light he can see how her chest rises and falls rapidly; her pupils, pools of ink to match the darkness, are wide enough to consume green irises and leave no color behind. _"_ Don't.. move."

_Him._

Keith can hear the faintest rattling — sucking in through a straw, exhaling warm and raspy. The air behind his left shoulder stirs with the motions, brushing gently against his ear and cheek with trailing fingers. He stares into Pidge's pupils, frozen, unable to even think of breathing.

And then, a voice.

**_YOU sSHSouldn't hAVe coMe BaCK_ **

The force of it splinters the soft space behind Keith's eardrums, shattering the warmth there into tiny pieces. He opens his mouth to scream in pain but can't hear himself — can't hear _anything_ but that droning buzz as it raises in volume, scaling higher and higher to block everything else out. The static is too high, frequencies puncturing his skull, frying nerve endings and short-circuiting thoughts into smoke.

Keith pitches forward on shaking limbs. He can feel small hands scrabbling at his back, tugging on his jacket frantically, but the world is _heavy_. In the back of his mind he can see those red eyes glowing, expanding, swallowing him up.

He sucks in one shuddering gasp and blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm setting a tentative update schedule for Fridays, although with upcoming breaks and holidays I'll be able to write faster. I have a whole lotta mayhem planned for this story so I hope y'all brought your bug nets!
> 
> Come say hey on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	3. Mothy Business

From far away, the moon rotates constantly before the Earth.

Phases come and go; a single silver eye opens and shuts, blinking through its endless gaze on a stony neighbor. The moon shifts, and with it shifts the wind.

Keith wakes to the sound of bells.

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the new moon. It hovers just through a tangle of gnarled branches, perching like a sentinel above two small, hanging stones. More stones nestle or hang from every tree limb like suspended water droplets. _Not stones_ , he thinks dimly. _Real bells._

A gentle wind whispers through the forest. The bells tremble and shiver in synchronized motions, showering his clogged eardrums in small sparks of brightness. Keith parts his lips and tastes the sharp spice of wood-smoke.

"You're awake."

Slowly, he turns his head to the side. His neck sparks with pain that lances through stiff shoulders and numbed hands, thrumming under the surface of a body that still feels alien. _Stuffed back in my own body_ , he thinks distantly. _I feel.. detached._

"Let me help you sit up," the man says. He shuffles closer, drifting away from the campfire's light into mooncast glow, and Keith is struck by a wild sense of deja-vu. The man looks like a Pidge from a parallel dimension — some timeline where Pidge is male, and several years older. They share the same tapered face, the same round hazel eyes. Even the tousled, mousy hair is the same.

"Can I touch you?" He asks, gloved hands hovering near Keith's shoulders. "Pidge left only for a moment.. There's no service up here to use her phone."

Keith blinks grit away from his vision. Swallows hard. "Pidge?" He croaks. His voice chafes, warm flesh rubbing over sandstone.

"My sister," the man says, confirming some faraway rational part of Keith's brain. "Little sister."

Keith doesn't need any further proof. He nods and lets the man pull him up into a sitting position, a water canteen appearing between his crisscrossed thighs to drink. The water is cold enough to make his teeth ache but he swallows as fast as he can; the man laughs and eases it away when he breaks, coughing.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Not too fast. You've been through.. a lot."

 _An understatement._ Traces of shredded snarling ripple through Keith's brain — that low voice warped by static, slipped into an audio blender and grinded to pieces. Instantly all the hair on his arms stands up, and he forces himself to swallow bile. _I didn't know he could speak._

"How are you feeling?" The man hands him an energy bar from somewhere, the top already torn open. Keith tears into it viciously and tastes sandy, nutty protein. _Pistachios._ He fights the urge to puke on the spot.

"Awful," he mutters. And then, looking around, "Where am I?"

The clearing they sit in bears traces of human habitation the same way a campground does — swept earth, a pile of sticks to use as kindling. There's a small, carefully-contained fire warming their backs, and a tiny stove off to the side. Keith slides his palms along the ground and realizes he's laying on top of a woven blanket. More blankets poke out of a tiny tent nestled next to the bell tree, where a makeshift lean-to of bark and twigs has been crafted.

"My home," the man says. He drifts over to the stove to fiddle with some switches. A blue flame flickers to life under one irontop. "The Matt Holt abode."

Keith shifts around on his blanket. "Pidge didn't tell me she had a brother."

Matt winces. "Yeah, I guess she wouldn't, would she?" He fills one pot with water from a jug and sets it to boil. "Well, you can get the news straight from the source. I think I hear her on her way back.”

Matt leaves him alone after that, content to work on making pasta. Keith stares into the darkness and traces loops in the dirt, over and over. What is there to say when you're pretty sure you almost died?

Pidge drifts in just as the pasta's drained out of a colander. She looks small and weathered in a dirt-smeared jacket; little twigs poke out of her hair. Keith's heart pangs in his chest at the sight of her, rumpled and weary.

When she catches sight of him she nearly trips over herself to get to his side. Small, clammy hands press at his forehead, his shoulders, the skin under his eyes. After a long moment of frantic prodding she sits back and sighs loudly.

"Thank fucking _God."_ She flings a small pebble at Keith and scowls. "I thought you were going to have to go to the hospital. Do you know how freaked I was?"

There are a million acerbic things that come to mind, but Keith files them all away. Pidge's eyes shine too bright to just be happiness. Her hands shake where they grip at the lapels of her jacket, one thumb running over the zipper in short, fervid motions.

“We’re both okay,” she murmurs, half to herself. “That’s the best thing, right? We’re fine, even if I lost my backpack..”

Keith frowns thoughtfully. "You didn't tell me you had a brother.” Pidge flushes and glares at him over the flipped collar of her jacket. "How come?"

"You never asked," she quipped. "..And also because it isn't a big deal?"

"Pidge." Keith raises his eyebrows. "He lives in the woods."

"What's your point? Plenty of people do that around here, it isn't too wild."  
  
" _Pidge_."

She sighs long out of her nose. “It’s just what he likes to do, okay? Don’t ask about it.”

 _Fair enough_ , he supposes. There are bigger things to worry about right now — things that can’t be put on the wayside for another day.

_Mothman._

"I heard him," he whispers. "Pidge, he _spoke_ to me."

They stare at each other for a long moment.

"In your head?" She leans in, fingers gripping her jeans tightly. "You heard him _inside your head_?" Keith nods slowly. She sits back, face ashen.

"I didn't think about it," she murmurs. "I thought—  most cryptids are rumored not to speak, so I thought—"  
  
"Hey, hold on a sec," Matt cuts in. In his hands are two bowls of steaming pasta, with what looks like canned cream of mushroom over the top. "You two have had a long night. Eat something." He plops the food in front of both of them, seemingly ignorant to the mood, and dawdles back over to the stove.

Keith stares into his food until the heat of it condenses on his skin.

 _Sentience._ Their cryptid was not only alive and well, but _sentient._

"This changes everything," Pidge mutters when they've eaten enough to satisfy Matt. "We have to go back to the drawing board."

“The only place you’re going is home,” her brother retorts. He’s filled the soup’s saucepan with soapy water and left it to heat again. “Come on. Help me with these dishes and I’ll take you there.”

 

Threads of dusty blue split a purple sky by the time they set foot back onto campus. The grind of gravel underfoot is a familiarity Keith never thought he would miss; he swallows hard and revels in solid ground, scuffing one sneaker into a roadside pothole. Across the road, a few lampposts gleam through the dark. _Home._

“This is as far as I’ll go,” Matt sighs. He scratches at his five-o’clock shadow and grins crookedly. “Be sure to text me when you get inside, okay?”

“Of course,” Pidge murmurs. She sinks into his open arms easily, burying her face into the vee of his unzipped jacket. “Thank you for everything.”

“Anything for my little sis,” Matt says easily. He flashes Keith a tired smile, a scar under one eye standing in sharp relief where the skin crinkles. “You two be careful about tromping through the woods so late. You could’ve really gotten into some hot shit.”

“We’ve done it before,” Pidge pouts. She jams her hands into her pockets and nudges Keith’s shoulder. “Anything for a good stargazing opportunity, right?”

“Yeah,” Keith mutters. “I’ll be more careful next time.” Matt gives him a long look but doesn’t say anything more.

The world is quiet as they make their way uphill, a serenity so at odds with the night before that it disturbs him. Whatever darkness lurked in the shadows is gone for now — he’s sure of it on a subconscious level, a bone-deep feeling that predates proper speech. _The predators have all gone to sleep_ , the new moon says from where it sets over the treetops. _Better rest while there’s still time._

When they stop in front of Pidge’s apartment, she surprises Keith by lunging for him and wrestling him into a hug. He can feel the flutter of her heartbeat through several layers, pounding in sweet relief like bird’s wings against her ribcage.

He presses one hand to the top of her head. “It’s good now,” he reminds her. “We’re home.”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The sliding glass to Keith’s apartment is unlocked. _Hunk’s doing, probably._ Keith leaves his muddy sneakers just inside and pads down the dark hallway towards his bedroom. The door’s been left open just a crack — just enough to hear Lance’s soft snores, and let the glow of morning light leak through. He shuffles inside as best he can without stepping on anything questionable and makes his way over to his bed.

The sheets are cold enough to make him shiver when he burrows, tucking up an old sheet to his nose. He exhales softly into the familiar smell and clutches softness tight between stiff fingers.

“You could have texted back, you know.”

Keith blinks through the darkness. Sucks in a quiet breath. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I wasn’t, don’t worry. I’m just saying.” Soft rustling below Keith’s mattress — Lance rolling over, shifting in his mess. “Hunk was really worried.”  
“Sorry,” he mutters. He hadn’t even thought to check his phone. Did it even still have battery? “I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“No,” Lance agrees. His voice chafes with exhaustion. “You never do.”

.

There's something to be said about the magic of a real bed — the way cotton sheets tangle between legs in a cozy cocoon, or the cold side of a pillow brushes over warm skin. _A proper night's sleep is good for you_ , Keith's aunt always said. _Gives your brain time to clean and organize itself._

Keith opens his eyes and promptly squeezes them shut again. His brain _aches._

"Oh no," he groans. "Oh _no_ ."  
  
Right on cue, his phone chirps beside his pillow. He fumbles with slow-moving hands to unlock it. _Six new text messages. Yikes._ There's four frantic ones from Hunk, a single text from Lance, and the newest, from Pidge. He leaves the guilt trip for later and goes to answer her first.

**_Pidgey: i feel like old beef jerky_ **

****_Chief Keef: salty and tough?  
_ ****_  
_ ****_Pidgey: no. i mean yes. im hella sick  
_ ****_  
_ ****_Chief Keef: oh. me too  
_ **_  
_ ** ****_Pidgey: do u think mothman gave us some sort of bug pathogen? is that even possible?_

Keith snorts and shoves his phone back under his pillow. _If only._ Right now he just feels like he's being beaten to death by the flu's angry older brother.

"Feeling shitty?" Lance chimes below. "Figures. That's what you get for staying out all night."  
  
"I didn't ask you." Keith glares at him from under the bunkbed railing. "Don't give me shit about this."  
  
"I'm not. Just stating the facts." Lance smiles beatifically from behind his face mask and spreads out on his dump pile of a bed. " _Ahh_ , the wonders of being well-rested and healthy. Really puts things into perspective, doesn't it?"

"Asshole," Keith grumbles, rolling onto his side. He's frankly too tired to be baited right now.

He closes dry, gritty eyelids and lets sleep take over him once again, sucking him down into a dark, muffled place.

When he wakes again, he feels even worse. _How?_  He parts his lips and coughs, recognizing the sensation of mucus stuffing his sinuses.

 _There go any plans for the weekend_ , he thinks bitterly. Not that he would want to go back outside after that whole catastrophe, but he was supposed to work on the research project with Shiro. He was going to have to text him and bail for another time. _Dammit._

The bedroom door creaks open as far as it'll go. It's Hunk, brow creased with worry. He sees Keith wrapped in his nest and smiles weakly, giving a tiny wave.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" He nudges the door harder. "Um, I brought soup?"

"Soup?" Keith echoes. He sits up as fast as his body will let him. "You didn't need to do that."  
  
"Yeah, well. I know how shitty being sick is, so.." The larger man trails off with a shrug and a bashful smile. "It's just broth. Took only a few minutes to make, I swear." The bowl in his hands steams visibly, and even through all the mucus in Keith's head, he can smell something salty and homey. His stomach growls painfully.

"Thanks," he mutters, leaning over the railing to take the bowl. Up close, he can see gentle shadows cupping underneath Hunk's eyes, gently bruising the skin there. A pang of guilt squeezes his lungs. "Um, sorry for making everyone worry."

Hunk's smile fades. He shrugs his shoulders once, tiredly. "It is what it is. We're just trying to look out for you, you know? I know Lance and I don't know you too well, but.." One corner of his mouth lifts. "We're giving people. You're our housemate now, so stuff like a little heads-up is important. You understand, right?"

"Yeah." Keith flushes and stares at his haggard reflection in the bowl. "I get it. It's.. different from what I got used to last year."  
  
"I get it man," Hunk says easily. He rocks back on his heels. "We aren't trying to be nosy. We just want to make sure you're okay."  
  
"'Course. I've got it."

"Cool." Hunk clears his throat. "I'll, uh. Let you eat now. Let me know if it needs anything, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks again." Keith smiles weakly. "Really."

Hunk goes pink in the face and flashes a brighter, toothy grin. Mollified, he slips out and leaves Keith in stifling silence.

_Buzz buzz._

Well, almost silence.

Keith maneuvers his bowl into the lap of his pants and slides out his phone to check the messages. His stomach squeezes at the sight of Shiro's name.

**_Shiro: hey, we still good for today? its almost 1pm_ **

**_Keith: im so sorry.. im rlly sick_ **

**_Shiro: no worries. focus on getting better soon._ **

Keith drops his phone to the side and sighs. A last minute cancellation with a friend is almost as bad as a last-minute cancellation to a doctor appointment. He can practically imagine the disappointment on Shiro's face, disguised with that bright smile of is. _You say it's fine, but I'm still going to feel guilty._

Ah, well. He might as well eat this soup.

.

When Keith wakes again, the room is startlingly dark. He sits up in bed and feels the faintest subsiding ache in his limbs; he sucks in a slight breath and can breathe ever so slightly through his nose. Progress — or maybe just Hunk's magic broth.

He fumbles in the dark — planting his hand square into the cold, empty bowl in the process — to get down from his bed and turn on a light. The sky outside is already fading into muted blues and purples, the day's sunlight leaking away where he can't reach it. _I slept a whole day away._

He pads out into the hallway. No light peeks out from underneath the bathroom or Hunk's single. The house, against all odds of being in a university full of music mania and fervent shouting at 2am, is silent.

The only light on in the kitchen/livingroom is the light over the stove. There's a small pot there with a post-it stuck to it. _More broth if you want some. Hunk._

Keith crumples the note tight into one fist and swallows his resurging guilt. What luck did he pull to end up with a housemate like this?

He places the pot back into the fridge and is just rummaging around for something solid to snack on when he hears it.

_Tap tap. Tap tap._

There are little things that begin to change about you when you spend so much of your time in high-stress situations. Everything becomes suspect — a reason to squeeze the sleeve of Saltines too tight, to crush the crackers inside to dust. He sprinkles crumbs onto the floor in his haste to swing around and stare wildly at the sliding glass door.

For a moment he doesn't recognize him, but then he slides off his hood and beams, all Colgate commercial-worthy teeth gleaming from the lamppost light outside.

"Shiro?" Keith sputters.

Shiro mouths words from the other side of the glass. _Open the door._

Bewildered, Keith leaves the Saltines on the counter and shuffles over, cracking up the door just enough to fit his face through. The wind outside bites at his nose and sends a flutter of goosebumps down his arms.

"What are you doing here?" Shiro looks ruffled, hair askew from being tucked under his hoodie. He's got the faintest stubble beginning to rise along his jawline and Keith does his best not to dwell on how good it looks.

"Sorry for not giving you a heads up or anything," he says, readjusting his backpack on one shoulder. "I just was in the area and saw your light was on, so I figured I'd come say hi— to see how you're doing and all— "

"How did you know where I live?" Keith blurts. Not that he isn't happy to see Shiro, but he's suddenly acutely aware of how threadbare his flannel pajamas are, how _unclothed_ he is compared to when they usually meet.

Shiro's cheeks flush a remarkable shade of pink. He fidgets shyly. "I saw your friend at Lower Hill — the girl with the glasses you're always with? I asked her."

Of course. It would be silly of him to presume that Shiro's never seen him in passing. _You're really bad at remembering faces,_ Pidge had told him once. _Faces_ and _names. No wonder people get offended when you forget them._

Not that Keith could forget Shiro or anything.

"I see." They stare at each other for a long moment. Keith feels himself go hot and the way one of Shiro's eyebrows raises, the way he tilts his head almost like a challenge. "So.."

"Can.. I come in? Unless you're not up to it," Shiro tacks on hastily. He steps back and squares his shoulders. "My roommate's been really sick recently too. I know how bad it is."

"What, not worried about getting sick?" Shiro shakes his head and smiles. "I mean.. alright."

There's something peculiar about seeing the untouchable brightness of a small sun chilling in your favorite armchair. Keith peers at him from over the kitchen counter and is struck by how relaxed everything feels. He's never brought anyone over before — much less had any visitors that weren't Pidge — but Shiro fits right into the scenery. He plunks his bag on the floor and smiles at Keith like he isn't sickly and disheveled like a used napkin.

"Did you sleep all day?" He chuckles. "Not that pajamas aren't a bad look, but—" He waves one hand at Keith's flannel-and-raptor-tee ensemble. "You know."

"Yeah," he mumbles, feeling his face go hot again. "I woke up for some lunch, but I've mostly been sleeping. Um.." He wracks his brain frantically for what Hunk always does when he has study partners over. "Do you.. want some tea?"

"Sure. What do you have?"

Keith stares at all the canisters lined up along the counter. "I have no idea. Give me a second."

There are green bags and white bags, red bags and black bags. He opens one canister and has to blink away the sudden tears to his eyes. _Mint. Super minty._ Some boxes just smell like weeds and dirt.

"Uh, come pick what you want," he finally says. "I don't know what's what."

Shiro leafs through all the available bags carefully, pausing here and there to read the available labels. Keith hovers awkwardly off to one side and does his best not to breathe too loudly. With the soft glow of the stove light illuminating them and nothing else, the dark feels.. soft. Close. It's enough to make him fidget, unsure how close he's allowed to be for decisions like tea-making.

Shiro settles on a green tea Keith is sure Lance stole from the dining hall. He fills up the water kettle with mechanical movements, setting it to boil over its canister the same way he's seen Hunk do every morning for weeks.

When he's run out of movements to follow, Keith goes about the next reasonable source of action: making himself something to eat. He's pretty sure making dinner without asking your guest if they want any is bad practice, but he's _starving_ and who knows if Shiro is on some sort of special fitness diet? _Better eat these chicken nuggets myself and apologize later, or something._

"Dino nuggets?" Shiro laughs, catching a glimpse of the freezer bag. Keith can feel himself flush, his shoulders rising to meet his ears. "Aw, no need to be embarrassed. They're good even if they make your teeth feel weird, right? I ate them all the time freshman year."

Keith shoves the pan into the microwave before Shiro can see whatever tragedy foods he has in the freezer. "I guess. They're food." _They're murder on your skin_ , Lance said the first time he yanked some out to eat at midnight. _Aren't you ashamed to sabotage your pores that way?_ "As long as there's ketchup, I don't care."  
  
"Fair enough. Although I'm more of a honey mustard kinda guy." Shiro cracks a smile that makes Keith too warm in his pajamas all over again.

 _Do I offer him some nuggets?_ He thinks frantically, pouring hot water over Shiro's teabag. _I don't have any mustard. Is he trying to get me to offer him some nuggets?_

"Um." He coughs, peeking up through his bangs. Shiro beams calm as you please, big hands wrapping around the mug where it's slid to him. "Do you want—"

God decides to interrupt him from blurting _you want a piece of my nuggets_ before it can fly free. Shiro whips his phone out and squints at a notification, brow furrowing in thought, and it suddenly occurs to Keith that they're basically sitting in the dark. He scrambles to switch another light on. So much for being a star host and all that.

"Sorry, do you mind if I take a call real quick?" Shiro's out of his seat before he's done even asking, reaching for the balcony door. "Just a sec." He shuffles back out into the wind before Keith can protest, sliding it shut behind him. The younger man fidgets behind the counter long enough for his nuggets to finish cooking.

Over the quiet din of arranging them on his plate (he has to have them all in a circle with the ketchup in the middle, _don't question method)_ strains of Shiro's low voice hum through the glass. Keith takes as long as he can to arrange everything just so, before he comes back in and sits again. Shiro heaves a long sigh.

"Just some stuff about recruitment," he explains, pushing back his forelock with one hand. "It's about that time of year — you know how it is."

"Do.. you have a thing you need to go to?" Keith's hand hovers with the first nugget halfway to his mouth. "If you have somewhere to be, then you should go—"  
  
"No," Shiro says hurriedly. They blink at each other. "No. That was last weekend. This weekend it's just daytime tabling."

"Oh. Okay."

Keith doesn't know where to sit. Does he sit next to Shiro at the other barstool? Does he sit at the kitchen table? On the couch? He settles for just leaning into his plate, munching while awkwardly staring past the other guy's head. _This isn't better, but fuck it. I'm hungry._

"Listen," Shiro goes on, when Keith has successfully torn into two stegosauruses. "Um. So there's this thing we're doing next weekend before things get rolling.." He slurps his tea too fast and winces. "Uh. A party."

Keith's chewing slows. "Uh-huh." He recognizes that tone of voice.

"And I was wondering.." Shiro sets down his mug. "If you'd want to come. You don't have to be rushing or anything to come. It's just a... get-together."

"A get-together," Keith echoes. He can see it now: a bajillion beefy flexers all surrounding a kegstand while he tries not to stand in the bathroom for too long, playing on his phone. "Huh." "So how about it?" Shiro pauses. "You can bring Pidge." _Even worse._ Pidge would make the bathroom too crowded.

"I don't know," he says, avoiding eye contact. "I might be.. busy. With stuff."

Shiro deflates visibly, but does his best to keep smiling. "Oh. Okay. I thought.. I'd just ask."

Conversation dwindles somewhat after that, though the silence isn't uncomfortable. He ends up offering Shiro part of his nuggets after all; they share them at the kitchen table and talk in low voices about the upcoming quiz for their biology class.

"I'm not a good studier," Keith admits, when Shiro asks how he feels about it. He shrugs. "I'll probably just wing it."

Shiro raises an eyebrow. "I don't know if that's the best idea," he says skeptically. "Have you ever tried studying with a group before? It's really helpful for going over complex processes."  
  
"No. I don't work with people." He frowns and chews thoughtfully on a nugget. "I don't really.. get invited to study with others anyway."  
  
"I see." The silence stretches between them. "What if I asked you?"

"What if you did?" Keith echoes. He cocks his head and swipes the last of the ketchup up on one thumb. "Are you going to?" _Do.. you want to?_

If Shiro realizes he's been caught watching Keith's thumb go from the plate to his mouth, he doesn't show any shame about it. "Do _you_ want me to? I'm not going to make you hang out with me." He grins crookedly, and takes a slow sip of tea. "That's not my style."  
  
_What is your style?_ Keith wonders. He's not sure where things started to tilt off-center but the way Shiro looks so _at home_ in this place that isn't is, pouring easy sunlight over the counter to warm Keith's lap, sends a thrill through his veins.

It wouldn't hurt to let himself have this, just this once. He deserves it after the Friday he's had. After the _week_ he's had.

"Okay." He disguises his odd flush by rising to rinse the nugget plate. "Sure. I'll study with you. Just give me a time."

 

Shiro leaves not too long after that — something about a night errand he has to run. Keith swipes the remaining evidence of their talk into the trash and shuffles back to bed. The room feels eerily quiet, devoid of the heavy body mist and chatter that Lance carries around with him in a veritable aura.

He's just settled into bed when he notices it outside the window.

"What the—" He sits up. Squints. "That can't be—"

It takes ten seconds to get down from his bed and open the window. Another second to turn on the flashlight app on his phone. He shines it at the lowest hanging branch of the closest redwood, the one that scrapes against their bedroom window when the wind blows.

A foot back from the end of the closest branch hangs a backpack, muddy and green. A little alien charm gleams where it hands from the tiny zipper pocket.

Keith opens his messages as fast as his trembling hands will allow.

**_Chief Keef: pidge.. i think i found your backpack_ **

And someone —   _something_ —  has found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next on our moth itinerary (mothtinerary): a revelation, a reveal, and some major moth shenanigans. Hope y'all are ready..
> 
> leave a comment or talk to me on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	4. Moth Me Like A Hurricane

The notes are missing.

Everything they managed to recover is sprawled all over the livingroom floor: crumpled plastic baggies, cracker dust and spilled ink from cracked pens. Pidge's extra pair of gloves are still folded neatly with the Swiss-army knife inside. The camera is even in the front pocket, though the front lens was crushed in their blind efforts the night before.

"Just the notes," Pidge breathes. She ran over as quickly as she could, barely even remembering to slip on shoes (though she forgot socks). She tucks one stray hair behind her ear and looks up at Keith. Her face is pale from more than just illness. "All he took were the notes." 

Keith sits back. His neck aches from staring down at everything, eyes burning from the half-light of his desk lamp that barely sheds enough for them to discern crumbled debris at the bottom of Pidge's bag. The shades have been drawn shut on both bedroom windows, blocking out any moonlight that might have leaked through.

"They weren't too extensive," she murmurs. Her hands tremble where they pluck pieces of glass out of the front pocket and drop them into the trash can. "Just some cursory things. My main journal is still in my desk." Still, it goes without saying. Mothman doesn't need a full set of notes to know how much they know. All he has to do is guess.

_ Can Mothman even read?  _ Keith thinks, somewhat hysterical.  _ Of course he can. Probably. _

It's becoming alarmingly clear that what they have on their hands is far, far beyond their scale. Mothman isn't some wild animal wandering in the redwoods, or a shifty creature of the night that appears once and disappears afterwards. They've seen him twice already,  _ up close.  _ Keith's made  _ eye contact  _ with the guy (thing?). He heard him  _ speak. _

They've been focusing so closely on mythical ideations that they let themselves be blinded to half of Mothman's whole — his human half. Why didn't they think he was capable of more, sooner? Keith wants to punch himself.

But the past is of little consequence now. Mothman is sentient, speaking, wandering around doing god-knows-what. And now he's proven to know far more than they suspected he could.

_ He knows where I live,  _ Keith wants to scream.  _ He's seen me in here. For all I know, he could have watched me sleep. _

The idea utterly terrifies him. He wants to throw up.

"This is too big for just us," Pidge announces, once they've cleaned out the whole bag. "Mothman is  _ huge.  _ He walks around and has a voice. How have people not found him sooner?"

"Maybe he's a good hider," Keith suggests, but the words sound foolish coming out. How do you hide six feet of raw muscle and exoskeleton? How do you hide wings bigger than a human body?

"Something is wrong here. We still don't know so much." Pidge frowns deeply, a dip appearing between her eyebrows. "If only there was a way to get more information without going into the field." 

"Is there anything we could find on the internet?" He suggests. Not that such an avenue isn't obvious — God knows he's spent some time by himself, looking up info on bugmen. None of it was fruitful. "Like, I don't know. There has to be a dark web corner  _ somewhere  _ with this shit, right?"

"Only one way to find out," Pidge says grimly. "I'll start on it right away when I get home." She pauses. "Is your phone buzzing?"

"Huh?" Keith fishes it out of his sweatshirt. His heart lurches weakly.. "Oh.. It's Shiro." 

"Oh for the love of—" She sighs. "Well, we're having a crisis right now. What does he want?"

**_Shiro: thanks for letting me have some nuggets (:_ **

**_Shiro: also the invite to the party still stands if u want to_ **

"He's.. inviting us to a party." Keith swallows hard and pockets his cell again. Pidge looks vaguely nauseated, as he suspected she would be. "We don't have to go, but he seems insistent about it." 

"What, you can't handle a little meat on your own? Now he's on my plate too?" She sighs, stoutly ignoring the way he sputters like a broken sprinkler. "Well whatever. Next weekend?"

"Yeah." Keith frowns. "You aren't going to call him meaty boy to his face, are you?"

"No promises," she says flatly. "Depends on how stressed I am by giant, sentient cryptids."

"I'll be sure to brace myself." Keith picks at a loose piece of carpet fuzz and sucks in a slow breath. "So.. research time?"

"Research," Pidge confirms. She stands on shaking legs and swings the backpack onto one shoulder. Even rumpled from sleep, with a Kleenex poking out of one nostril, she paints a formidable figure. All five feet of her sparks with a fiery determination Keith has seen down bigger men. "I'll get started now." 

"Don't forget to take your Nyquil," he reminds her, standing to walk her out. The other room is  _ still  _ dark somehow, though Keith imagines his housemates will be home soon. A weekend dining hall run, no doubt. That's the best time to steal milk.

"What do you think I am, some kind of forgetful mastermind?" They blink at each other for a long moment. Keith raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, okay. I'll take the Nyquil."

He watches Pidge walk home from the sliding glass door. The light of the lampposts stretches her shadow twice her regular height, spanning over cold concrete behind her as the slope hides her descending form. He watches and watches until even her shadow is gone, until the cold forces him back into the warmth of indoors.

**_Keith: talked to pidge about the party_ **

**_Shiro: and..? (:_ **

**_Keith: its a go after all. next sat right?_ **

**_Shiro: yeah! itll be fun. ill give you the details next time i see you_ **

_ Soon,  _ the text promises.  _ I’ll see you again soon.  _ It’s the silver lining on a dark cloud.

.

Keith wakes on Sunday to a small bundle of blue wildflowers tucked onto the end of a branch, barely brushing the windowpane. They're delicate, smelling almost overpoweringly sweet, a lovely spectacle if it weren't for the dirty roots still attached, clumped and knotted as if the whole bushel had been ripped from the earth at once. Lance opens the window to them and squawks spectacularly.

"How d'you think they got there?" He cuts a comical figure, robed and masked like some sort of beauty queen. His lips, one of the only parts of his face uncovered, pooch out in thought. "Maybe a bird did it?"

"Maybe." Keith wants to chop off the whole tree branch. "Who knows."

He goes out after Lance hops into the shower and uses a stick to rip the flowers down. The petals splinter when he grinds his sneaker into them, burying any remnants in the dirt.  _ Stay away from me. _

Google tells him that, rationally, Mothman is nocturnal. Keith pledges to the habit of closing the blinds and locking the window right before sundown; if he's lucky, he figures he can go through the motions before his heart rate picks up too much. It's ridiculous, really, the way he scrambles to lock up the room tight like a kid running into bed before the monsters can get them.

But it certainly feels that way. His monster is real, after all.

He fights sleep with anxious tossing and turning. The trees outside shiver in the wind but no red eyes reveal themselves. Eventually, sleep takes him prisoner.

When he wakes with undereye bags for his Monday lectures, Lance is at the window again.

"A crow?" He murmurs thoughtfully.

In the tree, nestled between two forking shoots, are several glittery buttons.

"Don't touch them," Keith snaps, shoving him aside. He throws the shades back down with an aggression maybe unneeded, but Lance doesn't comment. He sees his dark shadows, the sickly tone his skin still bears.

“Alright, chill.” He frowns at Keith’s rumpled form and gathers his things. “I’ll just shower then. Let you take care of it.” 

_ Asshole _ , his tone bites.  _ Stop being such an asshole.  _ But this is one thing Keith can’t control, one thing he can’t grasp in his fist and shape himself to. He leaves his sulking roommate at the window to deal with his demons.

The bedroom door slams too loudly for 8am.

 

"Rough night?" Shiro asks by way of greeting. He slips into the aisle with a grace nobody should have so early in the morning, moving past Keith to sit beside him. He balances his coffee on the pull-out desk between them. "You look.. like you're still getting over being sick."  
  
"I am," Keith mutters, slouching further into his seat. It's too early for any sort of lecturing, too early for him to bumble his way to a lecture hall that seats three hundred when he's barely got enough patience for one. He tucks his knees up to his chest and props his chin on them. "It's also way too fucking early."  
  
"Nine isn't so bad," Shiro says, all smiles. "Try eight in the morning, five days a week. Then we'll talk."  
  
"Guess we're never talking then." Keith scowls and tugs his beanie down over his ears. How are people so  _ noisy?  _ "Because I'm never making this mistake ever again."

The lecture starts up not too long after that. Keith does his best to follow along, slide after slide, sketching diagrams and scrawling in definitions. His handwriting is already vaguely messy but sleepiness does little to help. He zones out at one point and zones back in several slides later, staring at his blank paper.  _ Oops. _

"You can copy my notes later," Shiro whispers. He nudges his coffee closer to the desk's edge. "Here. Have a sip?"

"But I'm sick," Keith whispers heatedly. He slouches further into his jacket. "I don't want to get you sick. You're actually  _ busy _ ."

"It's fine. Beastly immune system, remember?" Nudge, nudge. "Come on. I know you want some." 

It's a taunt if Keith's ever heard one (especially in  _ that  _ tone of voice, what is that?) and he swallows the bait immediately. Dark roast hits his tongue somewhere between molten lava and sunspot-levels of heat, and he finds himself nearly spitting back into the cup. The ending result is something of a gag with the faintest bit of coffee dribbling out the corner of his mouth.

"Oh my god," Shiro whispers. "Are— are you okay? I forgot to tell you it was hot—" 

Keith swallows and grits his teeth against the way his tongue throbs. "Fine," he croaks. "Just fine." He gingerly places the cup back on Shiro's desk. "Just needs.. a bit more sugar." 

"It’s strongest black," Shiro murmurs back. "Or at least that's what I tell myself. I’m too lazy to add anything." A girl behind them shushes them noisily.

The rest of the lecture passes in a quiet fervor. Keith finds himself leaning into his notes, scribbling with half his mind on task while the rest of him hyper-focuses on the guy at his side. The lecture hall is quiet enough that he can hear the slow rush of Shiro's breath, the slide of his throat when he swallows his coffee. Their feet bump where he's spread himself out to fill the space on either side, and Keith can't quite bring himself to shrink back. Neither move away.

_ Fine, this is fine _ , Keith chants to himself. He's not sure if he believes it.

When they make their way back outside, Shiro stretches towards the sun and pops his shoulders. It's a collective effort of everyone surrounding to stare at how his flannel stretches without him noticing. Keith isn't sure he's managed.

"Where are you going now?" He asks before he can think twice. Shiro rolls his shoulders and grins.

"Just the library. Want to come?"

"Oh. I uh—" He flushes quietly. "No. I mean  _ yes _ , but I have plans with Pidge, so—" 

"Glasses Girl?"

"Yeah. Her." Keith rocks back on his heels. "Although, if you're going to be around later.. Maybe we could do that studying you promised me?"

Shiro beams bright enough to rival the whole sky. "'Course. I'll text you?"

"Yeah." Keith wrings his hands together inside his sweatshirt. "Yeah."

 

Apartment 6 sits snugly between two other buildings, its front filled with bougainvillea that blooms year-round and scatters dollops of magenta and lavender onto the sidewalk. Keith makes his way up the first flight of stairs to the second floor, trailing past sliding glass doors adorned in twinkling lights and window decorations. One glass door stands out compared to the rest for its massive poster of Bigfoot — Pidge's room.

He isn't surprised to find the girl working furiously at her desk. The blinds, completely drawn, would send the room into utter darkness if not for the red chili pepper lights strung across the ceiling. They pulse red and orange in time with low bass, effectively sending the room swimming in a kaleidoscope of fire.

Keith picks his way over thrown books and bits of mysterious tech to make it to the bed. Salty sweetness hangs cloying over everything.  _ Chocolate-peanut butter pretzels,  _ he thinks. Pidge's favorite thinking snack.

Sure enough, a huge bag of the stuff is torn open on the desk, pretzels scattering like confetti across pockmarked wood. He watches in quiet admiration as Pidge's fingers fly across her keyboard, punching keys hard enough to make her bottled water shiver. She doesn't even seem to be  _ breathing. _

"When did you last eat?" He finally asks, when Pidge stops to stretch her fingers. She laces her fingers together above her head and cracks in about ten different places. "This morning?"

"Last night," she replies crisply. "I've got work to do."  
  
"Pidge." He tries to flop onto his side and his temple nearly collides with the corner of a book under the covers. After a few moments of struggle, he tosses the text onto the floor to be with the rest. "You already know what I'm gonna say."  
  
"Since when are you my mom?" She throws him a glare and shoves two pretzels in her mouth. "Living with your new housemates is making you soft."  
  
He's not going to dignify that with a response. There are unidentifiable crumbs under her pillow so he draws his hands back and settles for the fetal position on his side. "Find anything good?"

"Mm." The heavy tapping picks back up again. "I definitely found things we can work with. Whether or not they're good.. we'll have to go see in person."   
"Another forest you want to scope out? Walk around and throw nuts?"

"Don't be silly. It's an  _ interview.  _ I already emailed and everything."  _ Tap tap tap.  _ "We're set to go this evening."  
  
_ So much for studying with Shiro.  _ He sighs. "When do you get any homework done?"

Pidge snorts. "Why do you think I never sleep? It's not a conscious choice, my guy. And anyway," she stuffs two pretzels in her mouth and speaks around them, "how can  _ you  _ study with Mr. Meaty? Don't you get sweaty just looking at him?"

"It's none of your business," he snaps, feeling heat crawl up his neck. "And stop calling him that. His name's  _ Shiro _ ."  
  
"Whatever you say, meatlover." She tosses him a pretzel. He crunches on it and sulks, staring at the pulsing lights. "How does six sound?"   
"Fine. But we're stopping by the dining hall to get food first."  
  
Pidge scowls. " _ Fine _ ." She swings around in her desk chair and goes back to furiously typing. And then: "It better not be another breakfast night. I  _ hate  _ their fake eggs."

Keith smiles into the dark.

.

The bus ride into town carries its own otherworldly energy with its stifling silence and passing lamplight that snaps clarity into dark booths in blinding photo flashes. Keith leans one shoulder against the rattling frame and grits his teeth to keep them from clicking together. Someone in front of them refuses to close the window, letting in icy night air — a mixed blessing, as the goosebumps rising under his favorite jacket ache no matter how much metro smell the wind cuts away. Pidge hisses irritably and tightens her scarf around her neck.

The duality of their city never ceases to amaze. Almost as soon as they step off the metro, the sense of being watched rises to swallow them. There aren't quite enough lampposts to maintain the bright warmth the day holds here. In its absence, shadows creep from alleyways and closed storefronts to lick at pedestrian heels. Pidge links arms with Keith almost automatically; after a passing incident last year, they know better than to stray into the path of lumbering night figures.

The interviewee's address takes them off the main downtown street down a cobbled side road. They pass a closed shoe store and an open bar where men smoke and eye them silently in their passing. Halfway towards the road's end lies a gated cottage with a painted front sign:  _ Crystals and healing. _

"A healer?" Keith side-eyes his companion. "I thought you didn't believe in that stuff."  
  
"I don't," Pidge says briskly. She rings the doorbell with admirable forwardness and straightens her shoulders. "But she has information we might need."

The door opens with a soft jingle to reveal a young woman. She can't be too much older than either of them, bright eyes shining from a round face cropped by a black bob. Her silky dress nearly brushes the floor, stopping just above wool socks with purple cats on them. Keith tries to make eye contact and ogle the animals on her toes simultaneously.

"Pidge?" She asks. Her voice rasps, delicate and soft, and she smiles sweetly. "And.. Kevin?"

"Keith," Pidge automatically corrects. "And you're Shay?"

"Oh, yes. Come in then." She abandons the door to them and floats into the darkness of the cottage, her skirt sweeping behind her. Pidge follows without a second's hesitation.

Keith wavers in the doorway. It isn't any worry of his to go into a stranger's home — he's strong enough, he thinks, to take on single attackers — but there's something off about the way light slithers across the floor here. That suspicion rears its head, the hairs on the back of his neck standing without prompt.

But where else is there to go? He chances a glance up at the sky. Clouds smother most of the stars, though the new moon's growing shard peeks through.

_ Go on, then. _

He closes the door with a soft click, and follows the others down the hallway.

The house is surprisingly similar to other cottages of their city, with flower wallpaper and enough photos and hanging knick-knacks to fill every open space. Lacy doilies blanket every available surface, effectively turning the tiny house into a delicate dollhouse. Something floral tickles inside of Keith's nose and he does his best not to sneeze too many times.

"Grandma is just finishing up with her last customer," Shay murmurs, drifting from room to room. They end up in a small kitchen, butter-yellow with daffodil decorations sprawled over a tile table and old, polished counters. Keith sits in an old chair covered in embroidered cushions and takes his offered tea. Shay hovers over them, wringing her hands. "Sorry for the wait."  
  
"It's no problem," Pidge replies. She swirls a spoonful of honey round her glass, halfway lost in thought. "We're just grateful to speak to someone who knows more."

The other woman smiles softly. "If anyone knows about the supernatural history of this area, it's her. You've come to the right place." With that, she leaves them to sit in silence. The floorboards creak as she moves away, down a hallway they don't know.

Grandma appears not too long after that. There's no mistake that she's the one they've come to speak to; between her skin, gnarled and brown like the old bark of a tree, and the crop of wiry white hair on her head, she smiles and bares an alarming lack of yellowed teeth.

_ She looks ancient _ , Keith marvels. He guesses her to be over a hundred years old, just by looking at her. And yet, despite her alarming stoop and the curl of her weathered hands, her dark eyes glint just as alert as her granddaughter's.

"You've got your tea. Good." She shuffles past them and goes to pour her own cup. "No good conversation starts without a cup, I think. It calms the soul."

"We're sorry to come so late," Pidge apologizes. "We're busy, being students and all."  
  
"It's not a problem." She waves one hand and plucks out a chair to settle into. Up close, little crystal earrings twinkle from sagging lobes. They rattle when she turns her head to scrutinize the both of them up close. "Talk of the night belongs in its realm. To place it anywhere else is to invite bad luck." Her mouth quirks. "And the one you seek is certainly laced in ill tidings."  
  
_ Promising words.  _ Keith leans forward in his seat. "What can you tell us about him?"

"Not as much as you hope, I think." She takes a slow sip of her tea. "He's a secretive one. Whole months, even years, pass before I feel his presence. He disturbs where he walks with his half-nature." She frowns, chewing one lip in thought. "A half creature of the night."  
  
"I tried to do research on him and found almost nothing," Pidge admits. "People seem to agree that he's a dark omen, or that he foreshadows death, but nothing creditable beyond that."

"He has a penchant for showing up before disaster," the old crone agrees. "But whether or not he is the reason for it? I still don't know. The connection is still unclear."

Keith rubs one thumbnail in the table's spackle. "So you don't have any concrete details."  
  
"Not as concrete as you'd like," she agrees. "But in this world, is anything concrete?" Keith scowls and opens his mouth to snap back, but Pidge's arm on his shoulder stops him. He settles for noisily slurping his tea. He burns his tongue.

"So what  _ do  _ you know?" Pidge presses. "Anything of his history? His nature?" She gestures to her open notes. "I have a few things, if you'd like to look over them."

The grandmother takes her book into shaking hands and leafs through the pages carefully. Little humming noises here, a grunt there. She reads surprisingly fast, and places the open book in the middle of the table after only a minute.

"Your notes cover some aspects I didn't know." Dark eyes snap between Pidge and Keith, a sharp furrow forming between her eyebrows. "You've had an encounter."  
  
Keith's mouth goes dry. He looks away. "Two."  


Grandma hums and takes another sip of tea. She stares at Keith without blinking, beady eyes scraping over him slowly.

"He's taken to you." It isn't a question.

Keith swallows. "Yes."

"If you want to know how to stop him, I can't make him disappear," she murmurs. "I only have information on who he is as a beast. Anything else is beyond my scope."   
"Anything you can give is appreciated," Pidge says.

Grandma stares into her teacup. Keith grits his teeth and glares at the line-up of porcelain jars along the counter. Pidge taps her pen against her knee under the table.

"He's tied to the moon," she whispers. "It is his guiding light."  
  
Keith and Pidge exchange a glance. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know the reasoning behind it." The grandmother shifts in her seat, straightening. "But his presence only comes with the moon. It used to be any given night I could feel him, just beyond my reach.  _ Lurking there. _ " She scowls. "Those were the days when people went missing — people that were unnoticed by the common eye, but people regardless. I would feel him, and another would disappear before the sun rose again. It was a practice."  
  
"But now?"

She frowns, tapping the side of her mug with one long fingernail. "He's become..  _ less.  _ I feel his aura in fits and starts — surges with the new moon, and absences when it's full. He has become weak, or something of that nature." She cocks her head to one side. "Almost no people have disappeared in the past year. It's peculiar."  
  
_ The new moon.  _ Keith takes a gulp of his tea and tries not to reflect on how the darkness ate them alive on that night. Beside him, Pidge looks grim.

"Today's the fifth day since the new moon," the old woman reminds them. "His week is coming to a close. If you've only just had encounters with him, expect them to drop off in the next couple of days." She frowns thoughtfully. "The fact that you've seen him once is absurd. To see him twice, in his zenith?" Her eyes flicker back to Keith. "Impossible."  
  
"Where does he go?"

She shakes her head. "I only can feel his aura. Where he disappears to, I don't know."

They sit in silence for a long moment. Grandma moves to the sink to refill the kettle. Pidge alternates between glancing at Keith and scrawling new bullets into her journal, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She looks as dumbfounded as Keith feels.

"We only have two days before he disappears, then." Pidge sits back and frowns at her work. "What can we accomplish in two days?"

Acid bubbles up in Keith's gut. He doesn't  _ want  _ to do anything; he's tired of this game they're playing, dancing like chickens in front of an oncoming train. They can't afford to keep treating this creature like some sort of child's science experiment when it’s sentient and at least partially rational.

There's undeniable relief in this deadline, knowing when the eyes watching him sleep will close; even so, he can't deny the dread curling deeper than that, clenching his stomach in cruel, bony fingers. If Mothman comes with the new moon then he's sure to return next month. And the month after that. Until..

_ Until what?  _ Keith almost doesn't want to know.

"I don't know anything about his personal nature," the old woman admits. She pours them all second cups, and pulls baked bread from a cupboard to heat. "It seems you two know more about that than me. But if I had to give any advice.." She turns the toaster oven on with a soft  _ ping.  _ "He seems cautious. He's conscious enough of his surroundings to treat you carefully, to try and woo you the way he'd charm another beast, but he knows he isn't being received well."

Pidge raises an eyebrow. "He sees Keith as another Mothman?"

The woman coughs a laugh. "I don't know about that. But I would be careful if I were you." When she opens the oven, the aroma of banana bread wafts over everything. She slides the loaf onto a serving plate with surprisingly nimble hands. "Men are wont to rage when their desires aren't fulfilled. Who's to say he won't fall to the same habits?"

Keith takes his offered slice of bread with wooden hands. It looks delicious, with a pat of butter and curling steam, but his stomach pinches at the thought of eating.

_ What am I supposed to do? _

He just wishes someone had an answer for him.

.

Any plans to go searching before the next two days are immediately nixed when Keith wakes to more rain. It's only the beginning of October and they've already been dumped on a couple times — signs of an oncoming rainy winter.

_ Good thing I drove back home for my rain gear,  _ he thinks tiredly.  _ I'm going to really need it. _

Even if he doesn't love the rain, the peace it brings is a blessing. He's not quite sure if Mothman's wings work like regular moths (do they get wet? can he be in the rain without ruining them?) but the gifts stop abruptly in the downpour. It's as much proof as he's going to get.

"Can't believe we squandered our chances," Pidge grumbles. She scrapes her spoon along the bottom of her tomato bisque and glares at the rainfall outside. "If I wasn't still getting over this cold I'd be out there before you could say  _ lepidoptera. _ "

Keith grunts and rips into his garlic bread. Anything that's going to separate him with one of the best dining hall foods is an activity he doesn't want to deal with, raging cryptids or not. He's still getting over his own cold, coughing up mucus and wiping away nasal drip. Going out into the forest would be an idiot's choice at this point.

_ Speaking of which—  _

"Long time no see!"

Lance slides into the seat on Keith's left with a broad grin, balancing a cup of broccoli cheese soup over a bigger bowl of salad. Hunk takes up the last open seat with a soft smile and a wave. They're both dripping lightly onto the table; Keith sips his tea and squints at a droplet carving its way down Lance's nose.

"Did you dance in the rain or what?" Pidge raises an eyebrow. "You guys are  _ soaked _ ."  
  
"Something like that," Hunk mutters. He sheds his raincoat with a relieved sigh and stretches his arms over his head with a satisfying  _ pop.  _ "Rainman here was dying to go puddle jumping so—"  
  
"So we hung out over by the bookstore," Lance jumps in. He crams a huge spoonful of chowder in and speaks through it, mouth visibly steaming. "There's a  _ ton  _ of huge puddles there, if you go around the side. The best place for puddle jumping, IMO."  
  
"You jumped puddles." Keith takes in how Lance's hair is plastered to his temples, dripping into the collar of his turtleneck freely. His pants are perfectly soaked from the kneecap to the top of his rain boots, slick to his skin.  _ That  _ can't  _ be comfortable.  _ "..For how long, exactly?"

Hunk and Lance exchange doleful smiles. "A half hour, maybe? Forty-five minutes?"

"When you wake up tomorrow with the worst cold on the planet, don't come crying to me." Keith crunches through the last of his garlic bread. "You earned it."  
  
"Quitter's talk," his roommate sniffs. "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."

The two of them dig into their food with the fervor of wild animals, leaving all talk behind. Keith finishes the last of his soup and settles for leaning back in his seat to observe the rest of the dining hall. Since it's prime lunchtime, just about every table is full of warm bodies and hot food, sending the air above into a cacophony of clinking dishes and laughing voices.

But even with the swell of gossip and eating one group stands out from the rest.

He hadn't noticed when they walked in, but now he can't stop looking at the bright, raucous group of guys that take up one of the big tables in the middle of the dining hall. They seem to attract everyone's attention like moths to light, drawing glances and shy smiles from the tables surrounding them. And who else would be in the center of it all, laughing with his head thrown back?

_ Shiro.  _ Keith sighs.

"Meaty boy's over there, isn't he." It isn't a question, but Keith still whips around in his seat to glare. Pidge grins lopsidedly around one corner of a grilled cheese. "You look like a princess pining in her tower. What do you think I'm gonna say?"

"I do  _ not _ —"  
  
"Hold on,  _ who _ ?" Lance leans into Keith's side and jabs him between the ribs. "Which meaty guy are we talking about? Is he here?" He pauses, eyes brightening and then darkening with mischief. "Does Keith have a  _ crush  _ on somebody?"

"It's none of your business," he growls, but the flush on his face gives him away. Lance hoots with laughter.

"No offense, but I didn't know if it was possible," Hunk admits. He's giving Keith a soft eye that makes him want to melt through the floor, an expression that says something like  _ aww, I'm so proud of my son.  _ "You don't even seem interested in making friends. No offense, of course."  
  
Keith wants to die.

"So who is it, anyway?" Lance leans back so far in his seat that he nearly topples over. Keith fights the burning itch to kick his chair-legs out from underneath him. "That guy with a beard by the window? What about Mr. Tennis Player next to the stage?  _ He's  _ got some thighs on him."  
  
"Try in the middle," Pidge chimes in. She looks positively tickled, nibbling around the crusty edges of her sandwich. "At that table with all the frat boys."   
Lance and Hunk both go quiet for a moment.

_ "Oh, _ " Hunk sighs. "I think I know who it is."  
  
"You have good taste I guess," Lance nods. If Keith's face gets any hotter he's sure it will burst into flames. "He's a good one."  
  
"How do you even know who it is? There's plenty of guys at that table." He scowls.

"Easy." Lance tilts his head to one side and sucks on his spoon thoughtfully. "He's the charismatic one, right? With the huge biceps?" He turns back around to give Keith a look. "Keith, _I'm_ super gay for him and it's been what, ten seconds? He's an easy pick."  
  
He's not sure if that's a compliment or not, but whatever. Keith sinks down into his seat and lays his head on the table with a groan. There's no denying it; now _everybody_ knows he's a pining loser.

"Hold on," Lance says suddenly. "He's looking this way."  
  
_ "What?"  _ His body snaps straight faster than he'd ever want to admit — fast enough to slam his knee into the table and overturn his tea mug. Earl grey streams freely over the tabletop. " _ Fuck!" _

"Oh my God," Hunk breathes. "This is embarrassing and I'm just a  _ bystander _ ." He shakes his head and leans forward to gather napkins from the dispenser. Pidge can't stop laughing behind her sandwich.

"He's still looking," Lance chimes, picking at his salad without looking at it. "Oh my God, he's  _ giggling  _ now. What a cutie."  
  
"I want to die," Keith growls, mopping up tea off the tabletop. He refuses to look up while he's cleaning, or even afterward on his way to throw the mess away. Only as he's about to sit down does he peek through his bangs back at Shiro's table.

_ He's still looking.  _ Keith feels hot from his toes to his ears, but he refuses to look away. They make slow eye contact and Shiro smiles, resting his head in one palm. And then he  _ winks. _

Keith crashes into the table and lands one elbow in Lance's soup. 

Above indignant shrieking and Keith’s hassled snarls, the dining hall rings with low, booming laughter. 

.

The new moon is waxing into something whole and bright but Keith's dreams are full of shadows. He walks an unmarked path under fallen logs, through undergrowth that scrapes at bare ankles and arms; his blood gleams in the faintest traces of moonlight, black lacerations that swell to blanket his arms in wet sleeves. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing in his jugular, his arms, his legs, like a sign throbbing directions towards his warm flesh.

He's being followed.

He doesn't dare turn around but he can feel  _ him  _ there — a warm, beastly presence breathing heavily over one shoulder. Numb legs stumble down a ravine and he can hear that heavy body crashing behind him. Huge arms reaching for him, red eyes gleaming— 

_ Don't look, don't look.  _ If you don't look then you can still breathe, still be you— 

His foot slips on a patch of wet leaves and that's all it takes. He sucks in a sharp breath as one shoulder slams into the ground, snapping twigs and undergrowth as he tumbles head over heels the rest of the way down. Down is up, the world spinning on itself, he aches to throw up from the vertigo.

Wet leaves cling to the slick surface of his bloody limbs, painting him all the colors of the redwoods. He sucks in a desperate breath and gags on the taste of fetid, rotting wood and meat.  _ Him. _

_ Don't look,  _ his brain screams. A huge crash thuds into the dirt behind him.  _ Don't look at him. _

From his peripheral he can see those red eyes gleaming stoplight-red, fixated on his writhing, weak body. He chokes on leaves, scrabbling to his hands and knees in an effort to protect himself. Branches snap underfoot as the figure comes closer, panting louder than even Keith.

**_Sttop RUnnING frOm ME._ **

_ Leave me alone!  _ He swallows the frustration that bubbles up in the back of his throat, choking him in acid and bile.  _ Leave me alone, don't touch me—  _

Keith squints with eyes blurred by angry tears, hair clinging to his sweat-slick temples. Words clog up in the back of his throat and tear the flesh there, refusing to come out; he opens his mouth and snarls wordlessly, spittle flying free to trickle down his jaw. He refuses to go down without a fight.

The shadow descends on him and he's squeezing his eyes shut even as his fists raise, ready to snap exoskeleton and tear hair before his dying breaths— 

A hand hovering over his head.

**_whHY DO yoU bLEEd?_ **

Are beasts supposed to ask questions? He doesn't know. Keith swallows salt and acid, choking on his own stomach juices that froth on his tongue. His body  _ aches _ bone-deep, cuts throbbing in time with his heartbeat, pulsing blood over skin in slow-motion. He wants to fight but his limbs won't let him.

_ Don't.. don't look. Don't look at him.  _ Tears blur and stream down filthy skin, splitting clear tracks where the muck drips away.

A hand grazes the top of his head, and he shudders full-body down into his toes. Goosebumps rise under the slick mess of his skin, skin crawling and itching where a cold, alien hand presses to his crown.  _ Him. _

His arms and legs tingle fiercely but refuse to follow his brain; fists unclench and hands sag to trail in the wet soil, fingers grazing leaves and dirt. The hand slides from his crown to one temple and then under his chin to lift his head. 

_ Don’t look, don’t look— _

**_LOOK at ME._ **

His eyes snap helplessly to meet bulbous black ones — he’s so close that he can feel hot breath on his clammy skin, see the way dark eyes gleam under the red reflective glare. No light reaches those depths. 

He can feel himself falling forward, plunging headfirst into that blackness, and when he opens his mouth to scream all he tastes is his own blood. There’s nothing, nothing but that buzzing in his ears, his skull, his  _ veins _ —

Keith sits up in bed so fast that he cracks his head on the ceiling.

“Fuck—”   
  
“Wha? What’s going on?”

He presses both hands to the point on his forehead where he’s sure his skull is split in two. His whole body  _ aches  _ in a way that feels alien. He’s oversensitive where his clothes scrape against his skin, igniting like a live wire; his insides are lava that sloshes somewhere in his gut as molten ooze.

_ Inside my head,  _ he thinks frantically.  _ He was  _ inside my head—

“Keith?” Lance’s voice chafes with sleep. “You okay, buddy?”

“Peachy,” he croaks. His vocal chords scrape as if he’s been screaming for hours. “Just. Hit my head.”  
  
“Oh.” More soft rustling as Lance squirms in his sheets. “Okay. You gonna be fine?”

_ No.  _ Keith tries to swallow against the dryness of his throat and coughs. “Yeah.”  
  
He rolls over and stares between the bed-frame bars. Faint threads of moonlight trickle between the blinds, trickling over the windowsill onto the floor. And then, Lance’s stupid personal fan ruffling the slat’s evenness, Keith gets a glimpse of the tree outside.

On the edge of the closest tree branch is a red ribbon, twisted and secured to dangle freely. 

Keith rolls back over in bed and swallows his urge to vomit.

.

For all the insanity that haunts the nights of September, October’s days are surprisingly peaceful. The tree leaves have begun to turn, dappling the air in shades of red and orange that cast a warm glow on the college buildings. The local cafe starts offering fall flavors. Lance whips out his (non-RA-approved) pumpkin spice candle and lights it every evening.

Mothman goes quiet, just as Shay's grandmother predicted. Pidge sulks over dead leads and the absence of information. The week rolls on.

And then Friday rolls around.

They're burrowed under Pidge's comforter and just firing up the Netflix when Keith's phone rings. He fumbles it out of his pocket and checks the screen.

"Oh." He swallows. "Um.."  
  
"There's been a change of plans, hasn't there." Pidge squints suspiciously over her massive bowl of popcorn. The thing is big enough to dwarf her torso where it's propped on her stomach, the brim stopping just below her chin. "Is it  _ meaty boy _ ?"

Keith shows her the text message.

**_Shiro: if you're still up for tomorrow lmk (:_ **

"He's ending his messages in smilies now?" Pidge tosses a handful into her mouth and crunches noisily. "Getting serious, aren't we?"

Keith ignores her. "Are we still up for tomorrow? Is that what we're doing?"

"I don't know, what do  _ you  _ want to do?" She raises an eyebrow. "I'm coming only for free food and mutual support. The one Shiro's expecting is you."

A terrifying prospect, if Keith is going to be honest with himself. He's never been one for parties — the only ones he's ever gone to were hosted by his aunt in his own home — and the idea of social interaction with more than five people makes him want to break out into a sweat. What does he even  _ talk  _ about with all those guys? What does he say?

_ Hi, I'm Keith. I'm only here for Shiro. Also did I mention how Mothman stalks my waking nightmares? _

But he's already duped out on Shiro multiple times to go cryptid hunting for a bloodsucking bugman. He at least owes him this.

"We'll go," he sighs, pulling up his phone keyboard. "I'll make a quick appearance. We'll steal some food. Whatever the fuck." 

"Sure." Pidge tosses another handful of popcorn into her gaping mouth. "Just try not to throw up on Shiro's shoes, alright?"

**_Keith: were in_ **

**_Shiro: great! (: here are the directions to my house.._ **

"1501..1503.. Stop, wait. It's here."

"Here?" Keith nudges at the lawn with one sneaker. "Are you sure?"

Pidge gives him a dry look over the light of her phone. "I'm using Google Maps. What do you think?"

The house looks utterly unassuming from the outside — two floors and multiple windows all lit from behind curtains, but no sound. Keith sighs and watches his breath curl away from him. The lamppost beside them flickers feebly.

"It's so quiet out here," he mutters, shifting nervously. "Feels like something's watching me or something."  
  
"Well, it certainly isn't Mothman." Pidge pockets her phone and sighs. "Ready to face the music?"

Is he? Keith thumbs at his lucky jeans (his only jeans, really) and sucks in air through his nose. He'd spent longer than he'd like to admit deciding on how to be presentable before just leaving on what he wore to the grocery store that day. The only difference was Pidge's insistence to leave his trusty fingerless gloves behind ("what, are you going to rob them in the middle of the party?").

He feels.. sorta naked. Combined with how sweaty his pits are after the bus ride here, he's ready to go home and they haven't even rang the doorbell yet.

Pidge fiddles with one eggplant earring and wiggles her eyebrows. "Now or never, meatlover. Your carne asada awaits."

Keith rubs his clammy palms on his jeans and nods.  _ Now or never. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter really ran away from me haha.. i originally intended for there to be more action, but the upcoming chunks are going to be so extensive i figured it was better to stop here. 
> 
> next Friday: rambunctious teens, rambling Keith, and rowdy bugmen abound. get out your bug spray.
> 
> leave a comment or talk to me on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	5. Something Mothy This Way Comes

Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. Keith stares at the empty bowl in front of him, peering down at the leftover salt and smashed tortilla bits that glint like pitiful party confetti. There isn't even enough to lick off his palms.

"We have too much dip," he mutters, pushing one hand through his hair. It’s matted with just enough sweat to fluff awkwardly and reveal his forehead. "Too much dip.. and not enough chip."  
  
A real tragedy if he ever knew one. Too bad Pidge isn't even listening.

"You just don't get it," she huffs, leaning into Keith's shoulder. Her cheek is smushed hard enough for him to feel her spit wetting the fabric. "Black holes bigger than our solar system. The whole  _ system _ . Are you listening?"

Is she talking to him? He's not sure. Carefully, he swipes two fingers along the bottom of the bowl. Salt glitters like fresh snow on his fingerpads under the muted light. He pops the fingers in his mouth without a second thought and scowls.  _ Oh. It's salty. _

"You're not listening," she groans, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve. "I've been talking for  _ days  _ and you don't even care."  
  
"Pidge," Keith grunts. He shows her the empty bowl. "Look. We're all out of chips. They're  _ all gone. _ "

"What am I supposed to do about it?" she grouses, shoving her face back into her cup. "I ain't the chip whisperer. Go find your— your  _ meaty-chip man.  _ I bet he's got more somewhere."  
  
Her words are probably supposed to jab, but right now it sounds like the best idea  _ ever _ . Keith fumbles to his feet (pausing briefly to let the room stop spinning) and fumbles towards what he's pretty sure is the kitchen.

He hadn't meant to get to this point. They were only supposed to show up long enough for him to wave Shiro down for a conversation — a short enough time span for Pidge to steal half the snack table without anyone noticing its absence. In and out real quick.

The problem is that he's barely been able to make eye contact with the guy, much less talk to him. The girl that answered the door had been a stranger, just as all the bodies sandwiched into this tiny living room-and-atrium area are strangers too. Keith and Pidge are nothing but small fry floating in a big ocean of Colgate smiles and posh body spray — an idea even more terrifying than being all out of chips.

Small talk was excruciating. Keith found himself mumbling introductions to too many new faces, shaking hands and immediately forgetting names only to start the process all over again a few minutes later. Sweat built where his pseudo-mullet meets his neck, collecting under the collar of his flannel shirt.

But then, like an angel parting the clouds above, Pidge suddenly appeared at his elbow with two cups and a nasty glint in her eye. She’d taken a grand total of ten minutes to nearly lose her glasses.

"Everything okay?" His voice barely carries enough to be heard over the heavy bass that thrums through the floorboards. "Pidge?"

"I got us some drinks," she calls back. Sure enough, one red Solo cup has his name scrawled in black Sharpie. "It's free, so why not?"

"Don't we have to bus back on campus?" He scowls even as he takes the proffered cup and sniffs it.  _ Immediately  _ his eyes begin to water. "..Who made this anyway?"

"Me." She tips back her own cup without further ado and polishes over half the contents off in a single chug. Keith stares at her. "What, you think I'm going to poison you? If I wanted to do that, I would've done it a long time ago."  
  
_ Reassuring.  _ Keith glares as he brings the brim to his lips. "If we end up missing the last bus,  _ you're  _ paying for an Uber."

"Yeah, yeah." She waves one hand tiredly. "It's on me. You just look like you need something."

And really, if it's already in his hand and halfway down his throat, who is he to say no?

Time blurs together at an alarming pace after that first drink — swirling lights and twirling bodies, heavy laughter and shouting ringing over bass that sloshes the liquid in Keith's stomach like the open sea. Vague snippets of conversation cling to his tongue like cobwebs, clogging his throat and ears with static he can't shake free even if he cared to try.  _ Bright. Warm. Loud.  _ The world is reduced to the fuzzy feeling in his gut and the thrill of laughter that shudders just at the back of his mouth, ready to fly free. He's made of air.

Or at least he was. Somewhere in the middle of talking to a girl with fluffy brown bangs he's offered a bowl of tortilla chips. The salt and crushed corn taste vividly of saline and stick to his teeth; he clears away the block on his palette with more of what's in his cup. The room swirls and steals the girl away, leaving him with an empty bowl.

But it's going to be fine now. He's going to finally find Shiro and ask him for some chips. Everything will be just fine.

The kitchen lies just up a short flight of stairs past the living room. Keith squeezes up the flight — nearly falling in the process, since there's barely enough space to pass the crowd clogging the steps — and shoves his way under bright, fluorescent lights. The blue light burns his retinas and centers him in the moment a little more, tethering his floating conscience closer to the ground.

"Oh wow," he mumbles. Giddiness bubbles in his throat and he swallows it down. "H-how did she know?"

It's  _ Shiro _ — bright, handsome, big-hearted Shiro. Even with his collar rumpled and a sheen of sweat gleaming at his temples he's crisp; the only betrayal of his drunkenness is in his posture, slouched oddly against the counter to support jelly legs. Someone slurs something on his left and he bursts into laughter, loud and warm enough to boil the liquid frothing in Keith's gut.  _ Oh. _

But then someone is saying something closer to Keith, puncturing the bubble he's blown himself, popping it enough for him to dimly realize that someone spoke his name _ —  _

Pointed fingers and someone mumbling lowly. Shiro turns and smiles impossibly bright, cheeks flushed pink as a blooming rosebud.

"Keith!" He lurches forwardly slightly and grips the table-edge for support. He laughs, and Keith can't help but laugh too. They gravitate towards each other almost subconsciously, the bowl forgotten on the kitchen counter. " _ Hey." _

"Hi," he breathes. Boy, is it warm in here or is it just him?  _ A combo _ , he decides, tugging at his collar for air. Shiro's eyes follow the motion and trail from his wrist to his neck, down the line of his shoulder.  _ Definitely.. both. _

"Haven't seen you all night," Shiro accuses. He smiles lopsided like some sort of cheerful dog, hair sticking up where gel refuses to wash away. "Thought maybe you didn't come." 

"Nah." Keith peeks up at him from under lowered eyelashes. This close he can see the sheen coming off of individual pores, can smell the spicy-clean musk of whatever Shiro puts on daily. He swallows thickly. "Promised I'd show, so I did." 

Shiro takes a long swig to finish whatever's in his cup and crushes the plastic in his fist. Keith can't deny how tingly his gut feels at the display. "'M glad you didn't split." 

It isn’t meant to be a dig, though it definitely feels like one. Keith knows that he hasn't been the best.. whatever they are to each other. Acquaintances? Friends? Whatever it is, Shiro’s been nothing but patient. The guilt presses down on him whenever he thinks about it for too long, but what can he do?  _ Sorry I canceled our study session, I was busy fighting off a cryptid admirer. _

"I'm here now, aren't I?" Keith slouches up alongside him, pressing their forearms together. The others in the kitchen have begun to drift away, circling beyond the table to let them have space to themselves. At the L-corner of the kitchen counter top the music feels muffled by space and warm bodies.

"Yeah," Shiro murmurs. He leans into Keith's side just enough to press their sides together from thigh to shoulder.  _ God,  _ he smells good. They're so close that every shift Shiro makes tingles and rubs the fabric of Keith's clothes, lighting half his body with a charge.

He's so focused on the tiny pieces of their contact that he fails to keep up with the words coming out of Shiro's mouth; instead, along with the bass that tugs at his navel and the liquid boldness melting his rib cage, he lets himself wash away on Shiro's husky tone. Up and down, the slide of his vocal chords slip like warm syrup over Keith's ears, pouring him full of warmth.

He lets his head flop ungracefully onto Shiro's shoulder, cutting short whatever the taller man was saying.  _ Don't stop talking, what are you doing? _

"Keith?" Hesitant fingers tickle where they graze his back. When had Shiro propped his arm on the counter? "Are you okay?"

"Fine."  _ Keep talking.  _ "What were you saying?"

Shiro raises both eyebrows and he sputters a laugh. "Okay. Let me get you some water, alright?"

"But I don't need it." 

Shiro slides away with a low hum, stumbling forward to mess with the cups on the table. There aren't any without a name; he ends up finishing the last of his own cup to fill it with tap water and press it into Keith's hands. Keith stares down at his dim reflection and inhales slowly. His chest feels heavy all of a sudden, weighed by water or some invisible weight that hangs in his lungs.

"Drink," Shiro reminds him. "Finish the cup for me and then we'll talk." 

"I'm perfectly fine," Keith grouses, but he tips back the glass and finishes it anyway. The slice of cold tap washes away the residual burn in his throat, trickling through heavy lungs down, down.

Shiro chuckles. "You, uh. Got some on your shirt."  _ Oh.  _ So he did. Keith flushes and wipes at his wet shirt, shoving the cup onto the counter somewhere. Shiro laughs a little louder.

"So, what were you saying?" Keith huffs, resigning himself to being a walking drying rack. "You said you had something to say."

"Right. Well.." Is it possible for someone as big as Shiro to look so small and bashful? One hand reaches up to tug at the bleached forelock he's got, mussing his hair further; he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and focuses on a point past Keith's shoulder, obviously hesitant. "I was just thinking that maybe.. now that we've hung out a couple of times—" 

" _ Shiro!  _ There you are, Adam's been looking for you and he said—" A girl —  _ Allura _ , Keith recognizes — comes to stop at the kitchen counter, taking in the sight of both of them. Keith realizes in a rush how close they're standing together, close enough that all he'd have to do is rise on his tiptoes and just— 

_ Nope.  _ He flushes hot from head to toe and slides back, leaving breathing room between them. Shiro sighs. "What does he need? Is Jace whipping out the karaoke again?" He cocks his head to one side and frowns. "Did he  _ already  _ whip it out?"

"Not yet," Allura says, gliding closer. She's either oblivious to whatever she stumbled upon or simply doesn't care. "He's monopolizing your first-floor toilet though. Amy almost relieved herself on the carpet."

"Don't let her do that," Shiro grumbles, gritting his teeth. "We have an upstairs bathroom for a reason." 

"It's taken," Allura says flatly. She finally takes notice of Keith, who's trying very hard to shrivel into a raisin on the countertop. "Oh, hi. You're Pidge's friend, right? Kevin?"

"Keith," he mumbles, wiping one hand over the wet spot on his chest. " _ Keith." _

"Right. Well." She pauses, shifting awkwardly in place, tugging one strand of silvery hair between her fingers. "Shiro..?"

"I'm on it," he mutters, straightening. Keith immediately feels the loss of his heat as he moves away, following the line of the kitchen table towards the door. "I'll be right back, okay?" He throws the words over one shoulder. "Don't go anywhere." 

"Sure." Like Keith would want to talk to anyone else right now. He slumps against the counter and exhales slowly. Allura eyeballs him curiously.

"So you're the one Shiro keeps talking about." It isn't a question. Keith blinks blearily at her, suddenly feeling a little too woozy to be standing alone. Who knows how many drinks Allura's downed but she still looks fresh as a daisy, glitter sparkling across her cheekbones and up into her temples. Her eyes scrape over his rumpled form. "You're different from what I expected."

"What's that mean?" He grumbles. "'Spected someone.. " Cooler? Hotter? Someone with actual charisma to match people like Shiro and Allura herself? He coughs. 

"That's not it," she says, shaking her head. She pops one hip and snatches an available cup from the tabletop to drink without even checking the contents, smacking her lips brightly. "I don't know what I was expecting. It makes sense, though." Her eyes snap back up. "He talks about you quite a bit, you know."  
  
_ He does?  _ Keith swallows the sudden thrill that vibrates in his bone marrow. "That's stupid. There's nothing to talk about."  
  
"Hmm," Allura purses her lips thoughtfully. She's got some sort of twinkle in her eye, and the upturn of her mouth says otherwise. "Shiro would disagree."  
  
_ This is weird.  _ Keith doesn't want to talk about how he may or may not be anybody's crush, much less Shiro, the object of his own pathetic affections.  _ Do they even count as affections?  _ He winces.  _ I've done a shit job at.. whatever this is trying to be between us. _

"If you're going to pursue him," Allura says, reading his mind, "I would do it soon. Shiro is patient, but the way you've played so far hasn't been fair. Don't you think?"

"I have my reasons." What is he supposed to say?  _ Sorry I've been standing you up, I have a date with Mothman. Well, I'm pretty sure he just wants my flesh. You know how it is.  _ His lip curls. "Maybe I'm not interested, ever thought of that?"

Allura has the audacity to tip her head back and laugh openly, chords twinkling and falling over each other like chimes. "Oh, Keith dear. Don't kid yourself." She tucks a strand of silver hair behind one ear. "It's unhealthy to do things like that."

"What, like you would know?"

"Maybe." Blue eyes nail him to the counter. "I'm curious, though. What does Shiro like about you?"

Allura takes it upon herself to corner him squarely and grill him like the FBI on his background, his ambitions, his interests. Or, at the very least, she tries to; between sipping tepid sink water and knocking back another shot, Keith's answers range from nonverbal to long, slurred phrases he forgets halfway through saying them. Allura just nods along and gives proper spaces for his responses before she moves on to the next one. If Keith weren't so goddamn drunk he might be a little worried on whatever is coming out of his mouth.. but he can barely remember what he said ten seconds ago, so it isn't too much of an issue.

Only when she's pressed him like juice for fifty years does Allura finally back off, taking a quick break to mix herself another drink. Keith watches her go through the motions with heavy-lidded eyes; his whole body is tingling quite a bit, and the sloshing in his stomach is reaching critical levels after sipping another full cup of water.

_ I kinda wanna... pee. _

"The bathroom is down the hall on the left," Allura chirps. Belatedly, Keith realizes he must've spoken out loud. "Do you want me to show you?"

"No," he mumbles, abandoning his cup on the counter. "It's fine. I've.. got it."

"If you say so." She smiles and bares a mouthful of perfectly-straight, pristine teeth. "Say hi to Shiro for me."

Past the kitchen the party is still in full-swing. Keith makes it two feet before someone slams into his side and dumps part of their cup's contents down his pant leg, laughing too loudly in his ear. Elbows and arms nudge him this way and that; he finds, a third of the way towards said hall, that moving against the steadfast current is like trying to run uphill at full speed. Nobody seems to notice him trying to slide through — or they just don't care.

A cluster of girls are centered around a backlit door in the hall. Keith hovers a few feet back and sucks in hot air, running his hands through his hair. His eyes feel almost bleary (with exhaustion or something else, he can’t decide) and he feels faintly sticky. The moment to breathe is precious as the girls drift in and out one by one, taking their time. His stomach sloshes a little more fervently.

"..For it. You know you want to." 

_ Voices around the corner of the hall? _ Keith tilts his head and stares at the ceiling paint.   
  
"I'm not like that," another voice cuts in. He blinks, shifts.  _ Shiro?  _ "I'm not going to push anyone."  
  
"Yeah? You plannin' on starin’ at that ass for fifty years?" The first voice drawls. "Don't play games, bro. Watchin' you blue-ball yourself is ugly."  
  
"It's none of your business," Shiro growls. His voice drops so low that it scrapes at Keith's bones and makes him shiver. He sounds  _ pissed.  _ "I'm gonna do what I think is best—"  
  
"If you don't do it then  _ I  _ will."

Keith sucks in air slowly. What.. what's going on? He brushes the wallpaper with clumsy hands and licks suddenly dry lips.  _ Shiro's.. interested in somebody?  _ His gut sloshes harder.  _ A girl? _

"Don't." If words could kill, Shiro would have maimed whoever he was talking to. Harsh rustling, the thud of a body hitting a wall. " _ That's not cool, man. _ "

"Hey man, I was just kidding, fuck—" And then there's a body appearing on Keith's left, rippling through the dark with square, firm shoulders and a jawline sharp enough to slice off hands. They slam square into him and just about send him flying. His body jerks along the wall and he finds himself fumbling to stay up.

"Wh- oh,  _ shit _ ." Hot hands fumbling over his shoulder, pulling on his forearm to steady him. Keith blinks and sucks in hot air through a dry mouth. The world feels so  _ loud _ , spinning uncomfortably even though he's so close there's no way he could fall. "You good?" Shiro murmurs.

He swallows hard. Blinks and focuses on Shiro's exposed collarbone. His gut is squeezing, churning with all the fury of a hurricane. Something hot flares in his veins —  irritation? frustration? — and he trembles with the flare of it.

A game.

Was he wrong? Yeah, he's not as good at reading people as like, Pidge, but he had started to hope— The way they talked, the way Shiro smiled at him and leaned in even when he wasn't saying anything— 

_ Was this just a game? _

"Get off of me," he slurs, shoving at Shiro's biceps. He hates how firm they feel under his palms, how he can feel Shiro flexing when he lets go of Keith's forearms.

"Keith? What's wrong—" 

"Stop." He swallows hard against the lump in his throat. His thoughts are swimming, fleeting, fiery-hot with bitterness that wants to choke him.  " _ Stop. _ "

Disappointment. He had hoped so hard that someone was interested— that  _ Shiro  _ might be interested— 

"I don't—" 

"Fuck off," he grits, fingers grappling for the wall behind him. Shiro's so close that he can practically taste his cologne on his tongue, bitter on his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. " _ Fuck you. _ "

He feels silly.  _ Stupid.  _ Shiro has so many admirers— of course the way he treats Keith isn't  _ special _ , he was just being nice— 

_ I'm so stupid. _

His eyes snap open to glare into the dark. His stomach is sloshing, acid frothing up into his gut, burning his throat, and he wants to spit, to  _ yell _ — 

His whole body seizes up and he stumbles forward to puke all over Shiro's shoes. 

.

"So let me get this straight. You told him to fuck off and then  _ threw up on him _ ?"

He groans and presses his face harder into the pillow. The sheets are too warm against his skin; everything is sticky and  _ itchy  _ from his sweat. He'd barely stumbled into bed with all of his clothes on — hadn't even remembered to take off his damn shoes.

"Holy shit," Lance breathes from below. "Holy  _ shit _ ."

Keith groans louder.

"So like. Is that it? You're done with him?"

_ I wish.  _ After a performance like that, better men would have packed up all of their things and flown cross-country. Escaped to the Bahamas. Made a new identity.

He still has to get up on Monday and see Shiro in class. In section.  _ For their group project, fuck—  _

Keith rolls over and presses one hand-heel into his eye. His brain pulses inside of his skull like a beating heart, pushing at his temples with enough force to make his head feel like it's going to split. Cotton clogs his throat and dries his tongue up. He's  _ parched. _

"Here." Lance shoves a bottled water through the bars of the bunk-bed. "Drink your shame."

Keith supposes there are worse ways to wake up, but this definitely is on the top ten list. Maybe even the top five.

See, the thing about vomiting late into the night is that you're already coming down from a high. Anything between the first drink and the last shot with Allura is a blur, but puking on your crush ( _ ex-crush,  _ he reminds himself irritably) has the unfortunate trend of sobering you up really, really fast.

Keith can still taste the bitterness of numerous shots on his tongue, can see the ugly splatter that glistened in the half-light on the carpet. Someone had immediately shrieked — one of those dumb girls hogging the bathroom, probably — and as he stared at that wet spot, spitting bile free, he could hear the stir of people leaving the hallway.

The look on Shiro's face never changed when he busted his way into the bathroom and nudged Keith over the toilet. He'd stood there, hands tightly clenching the bathroom counter, waiting until Pidge appeared in the doorway. Even when ushering them out the back door with cash for an Uber, his constipated expression never shifted.

"You sure you don't need to puke too?" Pidge asked mildly when she took the bills. "You look like you need it."

"No." Silence stretched for miles between the three of them. Keith stared firmly at his shoes. There was a tiny fleck of something wet on them. "Um. Your Uber's waiting."

Pidge, to her credit, didn't pry the whole way home. Small-talk between her and their driver buzzed right over Keith's head as he pressed one cheek to her thigh and closed his eyes. Small hands tangled in his hair, combing sweaty strands until there weren't any knots left to pluck free, lulling him into uneasy sleep.

Anything to end the night sooner.

"Is he okay?" Hunk hovers awkwardly in the doorway and wrings his hands. The clamor of Lance's hollering and fumbling for water had brought him from his single; he observes his housemate's suffering with chewed lips and baited breath. If he didn't know any better Keith might have believed he woke up dying and nobody had deigned to tell him the prognosis. 

"He'll live," Lance announces. His lips twist. "But the embarrassment might still kill him. We'll have to wait and see."

A damning prospect if Keith’s ever heard one. How’s he supposed to avoid Shiro if they share so much damn time together?

"Shoulda thought of that before you vomited on his feet," Lance says briskly. He stands and snaps open the blinds with a vigor Keith suspects is in spite of his own exhaustion. "Now all that's left is the fallout."

"I still think you should try to talk again," Hunk chimes in. He slips in and immediately gets to cleaning Lance's side of the room. "You said you didn't, right?"

"What's there left to say?" Keith grumbles. There hadn't been any need for words then; Shiro's eyes had said everything that he needed to hear. 

He squints under one hand up at the ceiling and scowls darkly at the memory. "I'll just stick it out until the project is over. We won't have to work together after that— It'll be easier that way."

If Hunk has any reserves about the situation he doesn't voice them, but heats up a packet of oatmeal for Keith to choke down in bed. Lance gathers up his studying shit and makes for the library while the bedroom is used as a hangover den. The day passes in muted tones.

He's halfway through an article on the Golgi body (fifteen pages, because apparently you can  _ never  _ know too much about intracellular transport) when his phone chirps out its usual high-tone.

He flips open his cell and brings it up to his face without sparing a glance beforehand. A mistake, really, when Pidge's ringtone has been an alien probe sound for the past year. His eyes slide to the message and nearly pop out of his damn head.

**_Shiro: I think we need to talk._ **

 

You learn to make do when you live on a campus that thrives off of cafes with piss-poor hours. The cafe just up the hill from Keith's apartment is one of a rare few that thrive because of the slow weekends elsewhere; he leaves his house with a couple of minutes to spare and finds the whole cafe jam-packed with students.

He doesn't eat out very often (and why should he, when his dining plan is mandatory and Hunk cooks like a magician?) but word on the street says Redwood Roasters has the best coffee on campus. Figures that this is where Shiro would want to meet.

If Shiro is going to insist on wasting his time blowing hot air, then Keith might as well waste more time ordering a drink. That's how being petty works, right? Lance had said something along those lines.

It takes nearly ten minutes for him to acquire a hazelnut latte — all bitterness erased by tons of sugar and cream, no matter what Shiro claims is better — and move over towards the mass of tabling. Bodies fit into impossible niches, pressing tight against his shoulders and grazing his arms when he fails to slide immediately into a seat. He ends up shoved near a window with his latte tucked under his chin, waitresses bustling by to take table orders.

"Keith! Over here!"

Underneath a nearby overhang is  _ him,  _ swathed in that black frat sweatshirt of his and a baseball cap. If it weren't for the shadows under his eyes Keith might be pissed about how fresh he looks; he's sure that to anyone passing, his own hangover and concurrent suffering are clear as day.

"I didn't realize it would be this crowded," Shiro apologizes when he's close enough. "Do you want to try taking a walk?"

_ I hadn't realized this would take more than a couple minutes,  _ Keith wants to snipe, but he holds his tongue and shrugs. Nothing Shiro could say now would make this situation any better. He might as well say his piece.

They end up following the flow of bodies back out into the crisp midafternoon. Keith sips his drink and follows Shiro's lead as they make their way across a bridge and downhill, leaving Keith's home college for another nearby one. Neither of them speak for a while.

"I think.. there may have been a misunderstanding," Shiro finally says after several stony minutes of silence. "Between us." Keith grunts. "I want to try clearing it up."  
  
"Why?" Violet eyes flit over steaming mugs to freeze Shiro in one spot. Keith can feel his mouth twisting into something ugly; he does his best to calm the sudden, wild tangle of thorns squeezing around his heart. "Isn't it easier this way?"

"No, it really isn't." Shiro frowns. "I thought you wanted to be friends."  
  
_ Friends.  _ Keith squeezes his drink tightly in one fist and stares at the ground. There's a tiny splattered stain on Shiro's left sneaker, freshly imprinted into the rubber. "I don't know," he mumbles. "Is that what  _ you  _ want?"

Shiro pauses. Cocks his head to one side and looks Keith straight in the eye. "No. It isn't."  
  
He already knew. So why does it hurt to hear him say it?

Keith swallows. The hazelnut syrup on the back of his tongue burns, rising back up in a huge lump that fills his throat. "Right," he mutters. He's  _ not  _ going to choke on his words. Shiro doesn't get the satisfaction of hearing him fall apart.

He's just being stupid is all. He'll sit on it later.

"Right. Well—"  
  
"It isn't what I want," Shiro continues. He steps closer, close enough to press his coffee cup against Keith's knuckles, warming them. "Because I want to try taking you out."

They stare at each other.

"..Sorry." Keith suddenly feels like he's been dropped on Mars. His stomach is doing awful flips and twirls, thrashing around digested latte like a confetti machine. " _ What _ ?" 

Shiro bites his lip. He's positively pink from ear-to-ear. "I want to take you out," he repeats. Keith stares blankly at his Adam's apple bobbing, baffled. "Is.. is that not okay?"

Is that not  _ okay?  _ As if the idea of hanging out with Shiro anywhere, anytime, isn't a potentially gut-busting prospect; as if Keith doesn't already get irrationally sweaty every time he gets one of those smiley faces in a text; as if the sight of him with a latte in their 8am lecture doesn't make him smile at least a little.

"Um." Keith blinks, wavering on the spot. He blinks harder. "No. It's fine."  
  
"You don't have to if you don't want to," Shiro says hurriedly. "I just,  it's been on my mind for a while, and I thought that maybe—" He licks his lips. "Well. I mean I was just  _ thinking _ , I should have probably asked you before we got into this mess, but—"  
  
"Are you saying.." The lump in Keith's throat relaxes, freeing his lungs. He sucks in a deep breath. "The person you were talking about in the hallway.."  
  
Shiro frowns. "The hallway?" His eyebrows raise nearly into his hairline. "You mean last night? Oh no. That was, uh." And  _ there it is,  _ his lopsided smile making a dazzling appearance, spiking Keith's heart rate as if he wasn't already about to go into cardiac arrest. "That was about you. Sorry you had to hear that. Adam can get kinda—"  
  
_ Me!  _ Here he's been, trailing Shiro's shadow for  _ weeks _ as he shines like the sun, catching every eye between here and the amphitheater, and Shiro wants  _ him _ . Keith, a scrubby, cryptid-hunting sophomore with no future outlook beyond a degree. God, and he just assumed Shiro was  _straight—_

_ He talks about you quite a bit, you know.  _ Keith bites down on his smile.

"So?" Shiro tries to hide how big his smile is behind his coffee cup and fails spectacularly. Keith is sure he looks the same. They're just two idiots, smiling in the middle of a college quad. "Will you go out with me?"

Warmth explodes in Keith's stomach, filling him up and cleaning out every part of him that felt gross and sickly. He can't help the way his mouth quirks up on one side — that inside warmth leaking out to tug at his lips.

"Sure." God, he's never gone on a date before. What do you even  _ do?  _ He’ll figure it out, he supposes. With Shiro. "Yeah, okay."

If Shiro's smile could get any bigger it would split his face into two. White teeth glint in the afternoon sun, bright enough to draw out Keith's own toothy grin.   
  
"Okay," he echoes. " _ Great. _ "

 

**_Superman Shiro: he said yes (:_ **

 

Allura tips her head back and laughs. Pidge looks up from where she's making tea at the kitchen counter.

"What is it?" The smaller girl raises an eyebrow. "Something on Facebook?"

"Not quite." Allura beams as another message pings in. It's all smiley faces. "Just gave someone some good advice, I think."

.

In a college kid's daily life, there are only a couple of things that can move someone to real hysteria. Nothing phases you when you roll out of bed after an hour of sleep for the fifth night in a row to go to lectures boat-loaded with jargon and cryptic diagrams. You are unflappable.

"I'm going to fucking puke.  _ Again _ ."  
  
Almost unflappable.

Pidge watches him pace back and forth in his clean desk area, socks rubbing up enough static to make his hair stand on end. She's managed to grab a microwave macaroni bowl from somewhere and spoons it slowly into her mouth, serene as can be. Keith, on the other hand, is sure he's going to implode on the spot.

"Try to aim away from his shoes this time."  
  
" _ Pidge.  _ You're not helping."

"Sorry." She pauses to cram in another cheesy mouthful. "Are you worried about embarrassing yourself? Because.. I think you two are already past that point."  
  
"I just." He sighs, running his hands through his hair. "I don't want to disappoint him."

Keith stares forlornly at his calendar where a tiny date's been written under next Thursday.  _ Lunch with Shiro (the special kind).  _ "What if he only  _ thinks  _ he likes me? We've only hung out a couple of times out of lecture. What if he doesn't like cryptids?" He huffs out an irritable breath. "What if he doesn't  _ believe _ ? I can't be with someone who doesn't think the government is up to something."

"How about you start from square one?" Pidge scrapes at the bottom of the bowl and wiggles her eyebrows. "'Hello my name is Keith—"  
  
"He already knows _that—_ "  
  
" _—_ 'and I spend my free time fighting off cryptid admirers. I also don't change my clothes on the weekend.'" Her lips purse. "Maybe he's super into conspiracy theorists. Have you tried asking him?"

Keith wrinkles his nose. "What, like I'm going to just bring it up? Also don't leave your trash on my desk. I found your candy wrappers from last time."  
  
"Oops," Pidge drones. "My bad."

Maybe dates aren't a big deal for the average guy, but Keith has been on a grand total of one (1) his entire life. It was with a girl at his high school. She'd pretended to use the bathroom and left him at their diner table to foot the bill alone.

But  _ Shiro.  _ A force of nature bigger than life, brighter than Keith's future. He's probably been on a million dates. Maybe even a billion. God.

How's Keith supposed to compare to anyone else?

"Don't worry," Pidge says. She smiles softly, one palm propping up her chin on Keith's desk, and reaches out to run fingers through his hair. "I think Shiro really likes you. It'll go fine."

"It better," he grumbles. "I already have too many reasons to move to Alaska."

.

They agree to meet at the base of campus and take the bus to a local taqueria. Keith already knows the place like the back of his hand; as one of three places where the Mexican food is both cheap  _ and  _ made right, many a late-night run has been made for wet burritos and horchata. He'd be salivating right now if it weren't for his debilitating fear of fucking up.

Keith decides to show up ten minutes early simply out of nerves. If he stays in his room for any longer he'll pace a hole into the floor; Lance had already thrown him out, saying that his anxiety was going to make his own skin break out.

But when he hops off the campus loop bus, he comes face-to-face with Shiro.

"Oh." Shiro bites down on his smile. He looks, dare he say it,  _ delicious.  _ His cream sweater is just fuzzy enough, his hair just wind-ruffled enough, his mouth pink enough from the cold. Keith feels himself flush down his neck. "Hey."  
  
"Hey," he squeaks. Oh God, they're  _ both  _ early. 

"Guess we both had the same idea, huh?" Shiro laughs. "Cool. We can start our date early, then."  
  
_ Date.  _ Keith sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. His stomach is doing desperate flip-flops inside his body.

The timing of their date happens to match up with the end of classes; as a result, the buses going off-campus are absolutely packed. Keith finds himself pressed into Shiro's side when the bus starts up again, close enough that he can feel how soft Shiro's sweater is against his forearms, that he can inhale deep and drown in the heady scent of his cologne.  _ Holy shit. _

When the bus slams suddenly on the brakes, Keith's sweaty hands slip free from the overhead grip and end up pressed firmly into Shiro's pecs. His fingers splay wide over his chest and he's tracing pecs, palming blindly at abdominals in his effort to stabilize himself before he realizes exactly what he's doing.

_ M-meaty boy,  _ he thinks weakly, snatching his hands away. His face is so hot he's sure it's going to melt straight off.  _ He's  _ meaty.

Shiro flushes bright red but doesn't call him out. He just smiles and smiles.

Keith fidgets and walks straight-backed the whole way to the taqueria, mouth pinched tight to prevent him from chewing his lip off. The awkward silence between them is an alien residue of everything between Keith panicking in his closet up to the present moment. His gut churns loud enough to almost prevent him from being hungry. Almost.

At least the taqueria hums with its usual fervor. Salsa music blares when Shiro opens the door for him, the overwhelming smell of cooked beans permeating every sense. Keith's mouth begins to water in spite of his nerves.

The cashier takes one look at the both of them and grins broadly. "Hey, now! I didn't know you two knew each other. Small world, huh?"

"Good to see you, Sal," Shiro says, reaching over the counter to clasp forearms. "How's your daughter doing?"

"As good as always," the huge man grunts, puffing out his chest. "All A's. We're hoping she'll get on the honor roll next spring! Make her old man proud."  
  
"That's great!" Shiro beams, and Keith can tell that he genuinely means it. "I'm sure she'll make it."

Sal's eyes flick over to Keith awkwardly hovering behind Shiro's shoulder. "And  _ you _ , Kevin. Back so soon? I thought Pidge picked up an order just a day ago."  
  
Keith flushes, shoulders automatically rising to his ears. So what if he likes Mexican food? "It isn't a crime," he grumbles, cramming his fists into his pockets. "The food here's good."  
  
Sal guffaws and slaps the counter. "No need to be shy about it, boy! You're good business." He thumbs a thin mustache and nods. "Both of you. The same as usual, then?"

"I guess." Shiro turns to smile at Keith, liquidating his insides. "You getting your own 'usual'?"

"Yeah. Sure." Anything to sit down and stop Sal from  _ staring  _ at them like a cat who's got the cream. "With a medium drink."

He goes to whip out his wallet but Shiro beats him to it, smacking down a card for Sal to run through. Keith frowns.

"Shouldn't I be paying for my half?"

"Nah. I'll do it." Shiro punches in his PIN and takes the receipt. "Where do you want to sit?"

"But I have the money—"  
  
"Keith. It's chill." He cocks his head to one side and tugs on one sleeve of his sweater. "I want to. As your date."

_ There's that word again. _ Keith flees the table to fill up his cup where Shiro can't see how red his face is. When will the blushing end?

The most stressful thing is that Shiro won't look anywhere else. Keith can escape into his textbooks when they're studying together or hanging in the library. There are  _ distractions.  _ Now it's just him and Shiro sitting across from each other in a taqueria. 

Undivided attention is something Keith has never been used to. Pidge is always fiddling with some tech, or typing away on her computer. His aunt and uncle back in Arizona never tried to just  _ sit and talk.  _ What is he supposed to say?

"You okay?" Shiro asks him after he comes back with their food. "Is something bothering you?"

"Not really. Just.." Keith ducks his head and crams a tortilla chip into his mouth. The familiar flavor is not a comfort. "Not used to this."

"I don't want to make you nervous." Shiro shakes out Tapatio over his burrito without even looking. "This doesn't have to be a big deal if you don't want it to be." He smiles gently. "You're just getting a free meal is all."  
  
_ What if I want more than that?  _ Keith plays with his napkin. He doesn't know what to feel. Between the way that Shiro makes him want to talk out, to get him looking, and the anxiety in fucking up something major like a first date— well.

Everything is so  _ new.  _ He doesn't know how to do new

"How are you supposed to eat that?" He stares at the red mass that Shiro's food has become. "Doesn't that, I don't know, hurt? _"_

Shiro raises the first bite of his drowned food to his mouth and wiggles his eyebrows. "Fire cannot kill a dragon."  
  
"Oh my God." Keith watches him chew, takes note of how he instantly breaks out into a sweat. "You're ridiculous."  
  
"What else is new?" Shiro beams with a mouthful of food. "Dig in. It's delicious."

He's right, of course. Keith's own California burrito is the greasiest, most delicious thing he's eaten since his last California burrito. French fries salty enough to make his tongue tingle, fresh avocado, carne asada made  _ just right—  _

It's enough to banish first-date fears, even if just for a little while.

"I feel like I'm going to go into a coma," Shiro sighs, once the last of his plate is gone. He's rolled up his sleeves somewhere along the way, cheeks pink with the massive amounts of spice inhaled. "A sweet, wonderful coma."  
  
Keith raises an eyebrow. He's not dumb enough to gorge himself on sides. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"Sure, sure." Shiro waves one hand. "I'll walk it off."

They ditch Sal's taqueria (heavier by two whole burritos and a complimentary bag of tortilla chips "for the road") and head deeper into downtown. Keith's never been one for window shopping on his own, but Shiro  _ loves  _ it. They have to stop at nearly every store display just so he can ooh and ahh at all the twinkling lights and festive fall gourds.

"Keith, look!" He stops for the eightieth time to point out some fake squirrels hiding behind a boot sale sign. "How cute is that?"

With anyone else Keith would have torn his hair out, but his face aches from smiling.

When the string lights hanging everywhere flicker on Shiro audibly gasps. He nudges Keith's side, smiling bashfully.

"How long have you lived here again?" Keith can feel his eyes crinkling at the corners. His heart hasn't stopped fluttering in his chest since they brushed hands ten minutes earlier.    
"What, I'm not allowed to enjoy it?" Shiro laughs. "It's  _ nice. _ "

They end up stopping at a candy shop so Keith can wrangle some sour gummy worms into a goodie bag. The sour sweetness tickles his palette, fruity flavors somehow tasting even better with Shiro's hand bumping his to grab his own. They walk up and down the same streets until the soles of Keith's feet start to hurt.

On the bus Shiro offers him the window seat. They balance the bag of worms between them and fight over the last one; Shiro's hands are rough and warm, laced with tiny scars that slide over Keith's skin when he takes the worm and snaps it in two.

"Truce," he chuckles, popping his own half into his mouth. Keith grins and takes his half with eager fingers.

It's only when they've got off the bus and started walking uphill to Keith's college that the nerves begin to spark again. Not quite the same — the nausea is gone, replaced with a bellyful of hot food and sugary sweets — but he'd be lying if he said his heart wasn't beating at breakneck speed.

He's not an idiot. He  _ knows _ how dates are supposed to end. But how is he not supposed to fuck up his first kiss?

They're walking up the backside of the hill now.  _ Any minute and Shiro will stop and—  _

"Keith."  
  
_ Help,  _ part of his brain screams. He turns and faces Shiro with the best blank expression he can muster.

"Yeah?"

Shiro smiles. "I had a great time tonight."  
  
So much for his poker face. He flushes immediately and pokes at the damp earth with one toe. "Me too."  
  
"I'm glad." He pauses, fingers trailing over the back of Keith's hand. "Would.. you be willing to do it again sometime?"

His heart is really going to explode. How can Shiro not hear it?

"Yes," he whispers, peeking up through his lashes. Shiro's close enough that he can count every one of his eyelashes, or the tiny, baby hairs of his skin. "I'd like that."

He lets Shiro take his hand, momentarily marveling at how their callouses scrape against each other. The sensation is different from holding his aunt's hand, or Pidge's. Shiro's hands are big enough to wrap over the back of his hand, his fingers long enough to probably curl over Keith's fingertips.

"Keith," he breathes. The heat in his voice turns Keith's knees to jelly. "Can I kiss you?"

" _ Yes _ ," he squeaks. Shiro's palm emanates a warmth that lances up his arm, filling his chest with molten lava. "Please."

Shiro's other hand rises to slide along Keith's neck, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw. He swallows, Adam's apple bopping, and then they're  _ in each other's space,  _ close enough that Keith can breathe Shiro's air, can tilt his head up and press their foreheads together— 

Their heads collide with a resounding  _ smack. _

Keith recoils with a hiss. His bottom lip stings where one of Shiro's teeth has split the skin, grazing hard enough to barely draw blood. Shiro stands stunned.

"Uh, sorry about that— "  
  
"My fault," Keith grits. He brushes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I wasn't, um, looking."  _ Alaska,  _ part of his brain chants frantically.  _ Now I have to move to Alaska. _

Shiro coughs, bringing one hand slowly up to his mouth. His face morphs into strangest expression on his face. Confusion? Panic? He coughs again, harder.

"Shiro?" Keith takes a hesitant step forward. "Are you.. okay?"

Shiro opens his mouth to reply and dissolves into more coughing, the back of his hand pressed to his lips. The dark gleam of what can only be blood stains his skin when he pulls his hand away.

" _ Keith _ ," he gasps, bending at the waist. His arms are trembling violently, one hand reaching around his torso as if to hold his intestines in. " _ Don't—" _

And then his skin  _ splits. _

Dark matter oozes out of every pore to blanket his whole body. It pours over fumbling fingers, reaching up to smother Shiro's mouth and fill it with tar. He falls to his hands and knees and begins to gag quietly, muscles jumping under his skin like an electric shock.

Keith sucks in air. He shudders, trying to take in a deeper breath, and fails. He's breathing and breathing but it isn't fast enough. His head  _ swims. _

Two more arms tear from Shiro's sides with a soft  _ squelch,  _ unfurling into hulking, black limbs. His back flattens out, wings exploding from the shoulder joints to flutter wetly in the cold air. Shiro gurgles— and then begins to  _ buzz. _

"No," Keith gasps. His eyes are prickling with wetness, hands shaking so hard they won't hold him up. " _ No. _ " 

Red hairs erupt all over his head, crawling down the beefy line of his neck. His head itself is twisting, molting,  _ reforming—  _

A black proboscis unfurls to brush the ground at Keith's feet.

_ Mothman.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I had to do it to em.
> 
> [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	6. Mothing Compares To You

_This has to be a dream._

Fingers wrench from dirt. Muscles clench and flex. He rises.

 _I'm asleep. I'm sleeping. This is a_ nightmare—

Mothman towers over him, eyes glistening in the dark. Keith chokes on air. He's numb, frozen to the ground, trapped under coal-red eyes that bore into his skin. Debris shudders where twitching wings riffle it over cold fingers and rumpled clothes.

_Wakeupwakeupwakeup—_

The salt of his own blood in his mouth tastes bitter, too salty where his tongue stings at the sensation of it overriding sourness and spice and sugary sweet gummy worms. He's barely cut his lip and all he can taste is dread. His stomach squeezes tight, tighter than it has all day, threatening to upend everything he's eaten since he woke up. The back of his throat _burns._

His heartbeat thuds loud enough to block out all other sounds, boring into the soft matter of his brain. Black spots bloom across his vision, staining the shadow of his nightmares in splotches of ink.

He's going to faint.

 _No._ No. He _can't_. He can''t—  he has to stay awake, because he's awake after all, and if he goes to sleep

_what will happen to me?_

Mothman's proboscis curls and uncurls like a grotesque elephant trunk, trailing towards Keith's prone form. Brushing the air. Tasting his scent. _Reaching_ for him.

But he never moves any closer. Keith sucks in air through collapsing lungs, and Mothman stands his ground. Black legs twice the size of Keith's thighs flex and relax but never take a step. Wings tremble and flick earth around but never take flight.

**_SORRYRy._ **

The static cuts through the cobwebs of Keith's thought and slices threads free; he blinks and finds he can shift ever so slowly. His muscles ache and shake as if he might crumble into pieces but he's _alive._ Alive and untouched.

"Why?" He breathes. He blinks harder, feeling cold wetness against his eyelashes. When did he start to..? _"Why?"_

This is all wrong. All Keith wanted was Shiro—  early-rising, eager to please, passionate about stupid things like fake squirrels and sparkling lights, warm enough to fill the lonely gap in Keith's chest. _Shiro._

But that _is_ Shiro. Underneath it all, it's him. Keith pulls back from the picture and can see the familiar shape of his shoulders, the vague Dorito-esque figure he poses under jackets and creamy sweaters.

Shiro is Mothman.

There are a million impossibilities that Keith has known could be true— facts thrown under the blanket of conspiracy to strangle on their own poison, memories dissipating into the stuff of dreams and legends. But never in his right mind would he ever have counted _this_ as one of them.

If Shiro hears his words he doesn't respond. The night air runs over Keith's skin and numbs him to the bone, but Shiro stands stock-still under the light of the full moon. Even his awful proboscis refuses to move.

**_IM sOrRYH._ **

One moment Keith is sitting in the dirt and the next he's bundled up in a pair of hulking, black arms. He doesn't even have the time to breathe before they're _up,_ jettisoned past the trees, spearheading straight up into the night sky fast enough to rip all the air left in his shaky lungs.

In the air. They're flying _in the air._

If Keith wasn't already about to have a heart attack, this was going to do it.

"Put me down!" He slams his fists against Mothman's first set of arms. It has the effect of slapping a boulder. "You have _ten fucking seconds_ to put me the _fuck_ down! Hey!"

But he's a man (moth?) on a mission, which means Keith ends up having to go slack or risk throwing himself out of Shiro's arms. His reflexes are obviously inhumanly fast but Keith is not going to risk it.

 _I haven't died yet,_ he thinks grimly. _Might as well wait until we hit the ground._

They soar over the tips of the redwoods at an alarming speed— at least as fast as a small car, if not even more. The cold slices every ounce of warmth from his body, sapping him until he's positive he's a living icicle. He can't even feel his face when he licks his dry, chapped lips.

It's impossible to get a good look at where they're going with how Mothman's determined to cradle him to chis chest, but he guesses they're veering away from campus. To the northeast, maybe.

Nobody ever walks the northeast woods.

But if Mothman's determined to suck out all of Keith's insides, he doesn't show it at close range. He isn't even looking at him; his huge, gleaming eyes focus blankly on the darkness ahead of them, alive but unblinking. Wherever they're off to, Mothman has a clear destination in mind.

The light of the full moon illuminates his grotesque head better than any encounter they've had on the ground—  an opportunity for Keith to study him up close, at least for a little while. His whole body somehow seems to have swelled even larger with the metamorphosis, muscles expanding and skeleton building up to make him bulky, indomitable. The resulting effect means that at full height, Keith's head rests on what would normally be a human chest— not that he’d ever want to. The exoskeleton is stone-cold and impossible to draw comfort from. No warmth can be found here.

The underside of his head is an absolute mess of crimson hairs. Thick and bristly enough to be dog hair, they prickle at the crown of Keith’s head where he's tucked, worrying at his skull like an old hairbrush.

 _Coarse,_ he realizes. _But not sharp._

After what could only be a couple of minutes (the moon hasn't even shifted in its course) they begin to descend. Keith grips at Mothman's arms in spite of himself to brace for violent impact, but they hit the ground so gently that he doesn't realize it's over until Mothman's righting his body himself.

They're in the middle of an unknown clearing.

Keith rips himself from Mothman's arms the moment his own feet touch the ground, desperate to gain distance. Wherever they've dropped is devoid of both trees and undergrowth; the ground, swept free of every pine needle, bears traces of deep scarring and unnatural holes. A regular hangout?

Mothman watches him from the middle of the clearing but never moves; the way his shoulders curve under Keith's gaze, body hunching in on itself, Keith would almost believe he's.. sheepish. Embarrassed? Whatever it is, the startlingly human posture is disturbing on such an unnatural, grotesque body.

"What do you want from me?" He hates how his voice cracks on the last syllable, betraying his own weakness. "Who _are_ you?"

Mothman stares back, unblinking.

And then he turns to walk away.

Keith scowls. "Don't walk away from me! I'm _talking_ to you." Like hell is he going to just be left to squat in the dirt while this _thing_ does God knows what. He's had enough for this evening. For this whole lifetime, really. It's fucking exhausting. " _Hey!_ "

The cryptid melds into the redwood's shadows in an instant, leaving Keith to stew alone.

 

He has no idea how much times passes. The moon, full and bright, doesn't ever seem to shift in position; if anything, the longer he looks at it, the less everything seems to move at all. He feels as if he's been thrown into an alternate dimension where time is frozen.

His phone is no help either. The thing is dead as a door nail. He had a feeling there wouldn't be any service even if it did work.

So Keith does what he does best in times like these, where the liminal space is big enough to crush him.

He builds a plan.

He has no doubt that Mothman will be back for him. Why else would he dump him out in the middle of the woods if it wasn't to suck out his insides?

But if Mothman's been acting nice just to butter Keith up, he'll be sorely disappointed to find that Keith is _not_ going to lie down and let him eat him. Date or not, Keith has his own agenda—  one that involves staying alive for as long as possible, thanks.

Finding a branch thick enough isn't difficult. Whether its out of Mothman’s arrogance or ignorance of his surroundings, Keith doesn't care; all the resources to make a sharp, thick spear are lying just beyond the clearing. Once he's snapped one stick into an acceptable shape, all he has to do is find a sharp rock and a good vantage point to keep watch from. He hunkers down in a low-hanging branch and rests the branch over one knee the way he's seen Bear Grylls do on TV.

And then he gets to sharpening.

There may be no forests back at home, but that never stopped Keith from reading as many survival manuals as possible. He's got a good enough handle on the stars themselves to use them as a map, and then, when the sun rises, the trajectory of that too. He'll get home one way or another.

He can't help but laugh bitterly at how _stupid_ this all is. All he wanted was to go on a fucking date with the guy he likes. How did he end up preparing to fight a cryptid?

If he thinks too hard about it all he's bound to go nuts. He swallows bile and focuses on the bite of the branch into his palm, on the occasional slip of his rock to chafe fingertips. More blood prickles at his nail-beds, stinging in tiny, hot pricks where the skin breaks. All discomfort is set aside to sharpen his resolution, his determination.

He'll only have one shot. The softness of Mothman's head belies his indomitable shell; if he can just fling the spear, or maybe stab with it, aiming straight for the softness of those bulging, black eyes..

Well. It'll have to do.

Sneaking is impossible in these woods; the heavy rustling of undergrowth carries over the wind-blown redwoods, making its way haphazardly in Keith's direction. He hunches in a crouched position, stick poised at his shoulder, and stares out into the dark. He's at an automatic disadvantage but he refuses to be caught unaware.

Color flitting through the black trees—

The hoarse yell that rips from his throat is almost immediately matched by another. Violet eyes snap to meet brown ones.

_Not Mothman._

It's too late to rewind his throw, to redirect the clenching of muscles and the adrenaline coursing in his veins, he's going to _spear another human being, fuck—_

But then, against all odds, the man pushes forward and slides too close, out of Keith's trajectory, knocking him to the ground. The stick flies free from his hand and tumbles away into the undergrowth somewhere.

Keith lies on his back, panting, and stares into an all-too-familiar face.

 _"Matt?_ "

Moonlight reflects against half his skin, illuminating five-o'clock shadow and rumpled hair full of twigs. He looks like he's been to hell and back. Hassled.

 _That makes two of us,_ Keith thinks hysterically. He sits up, eyes darting past Matt into the dark.

"What the fuck are you doing here? We have to leave— _it_ might come back, and we can't be here—" He pauses, lurching forward onto his knees. The impact to his head makes his blood rush painfully but he forces himself to stand anyway. "Where's that stick?"

"What are you talking about?" Matt frowns, running one hand through his hair. "I was on a night walk and I heard shouting, so—"

"You didn't see him?" Keith turns, brow furrowed. "He didn't stop you?"

" _Who?_ " Matt's eyebrows raise towards his hairline. "Are you.. okay? Keith—"

The words hover on the tip of his tongue, desperate to spill out. _We have to leave before Mothman finds us._ But would Matt believe him? How has Matt been able to live in the woods for so long without seeing him anyway?

"Matt." Keith licks his lips. "Do you trust me?"

"I mean.." Dark eyes scrape over his bedraggled clothes, his wild eyes and bitten lips. "Yeah. Sure. Why?"

"There's something in these woods. Something _big._ " He pushes past Matt to kick around through the undergrowth. That stick has to be around here somewhere. "And we have to be armed when it comes back."  
  
"Something big..?" Matt's eyes go wide in the dark. "Like, how big are we talking? A mountain cat?"

"Bigger." He stops to crouch in the dirt and peer at something. Nope, not his stick, although the amount of grubs here is really impressive. Why couldn't Mothman just eat these? "Bigger than you or me." He straightens and stares out into the shadows. "With wings."  
  
Matt's lips part. Fingers graze the lining of his jacket, thumbing at old zipper teeth; his eyes flicker over Keith again and stare past him into the clearing. "With wings, huh?" He murmurs. "Like that?" He points.

Keith's head whips around. Sure enough, Mothman is landing delicately in the middle of the clearing again. The flutter of his wings is utterly soundless; he doesn't even disturb the ground when he lands, light as a feather. Dark eyes gleam red where they stare into the dark. He seems to know right where they are.

 _So much for the element of surprise._ Keith swears under his breath.

"We have to _go_ ," he snaps, grabbing onto Matt's sleeve. "Don't stare at him, he's gonna fucking kill us—"  
  
But Matt isn't even listening. As Keith watches, the wood-dweller shakes himself free from Keith's grip and strides right into the clearing, calm-as-you-please.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He hisses. Matt doesn't appear to hear.

He stops right in front of Mothman, head cocked to one side. They appear to stare at each other for one long moment. And then Matt's face breaks into a tired smile.  
  
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" He leans in, eyes running over Mothman's exoskeleton and hairy face as if observing a typical city scene. "You don't look any worse for wear. That's good."  
  
_What?_ Keith can feel his mouth dropping open. _What the fuck is going on?_

Mothman doesn't make any mood to suck out Matt's insides either, but twitches and buzzes at a low, humming level. He sounds more like a crowd of sleepy bumblebees than anything else—a harmless comparison that irritates Keith, for some reason. As he watches, the cryptid bobs his head up and down, wings fluttering on his back as if he might take flight again.

"You've made a mess out of this," Matt sighs. He plants one hand on his hip and jerks his chin to where Keith is crouched, just beyond the clearing. "He's all freaked out. You know that's no good, right?"

 _Buzz buzz._ Mothman bobs in place and then _bows his head,_ like some sort of bashful monk. Keith's jaw has to be somewhere on the floor by now.

"Now I'm going to have to fix everything." Matt pauses. " _Again._ " He turns around and makes direct eye contact with Keith. "You owe me, man."

"Matt." Keith grits his teeth. "What, the _fuck_ , is happening? Is anyone going to explain anything to me?"

"Ah, yeah." He rubs the back of his head and smiles crookedly. "We should do that right away, huh? Since I don't think you want to take a seat."

"No." Keith's eyes flicker from him to Mothman, who stares back unblinking. "I don't."

"Right, well." Matt jams his hands into his pockets. "If you're here, then one of two things has happened. Either our bugman here flew you without telling you who he was first," he casts a glance behind him, "which is _rude. Or,_ you know exactly who he is and you're ready to stab him through his human heart. Which is it?"

"Both?" Keith is sure he's grinding his teeth enough for the dentist to have an aneurysm. "Care to tell me _why_ Shiro happens to be a giant, fucking cryptid? Who _stalks_ me?"

" _Stalks_ you?" Matt gawks. "That's not supposed to happen. Wow, how embarrassing. Wait 'til Shiro gets a load of this."

"But that _is_ Shiro!" Keith snaps. "Isn't it? It can't be anyone else! He fucking _transformed_ right in front of me!"

"That does make it confusing," Matt says agreeably. "But I assure you, Shiro has no idea. They've got separate brains, y'see."

Keith’s eyebrows make liftoff and head somewhere towards Jupiter. "Separate brains," he echoes flatly.

"Sounds crazy, I know. But I don't know how else to put it." Matt rocks back on his heels. "See, he doesn't _know_ he's Shiro. He's just got.. Ideas. Vague impressions of what goes on in Shiro’s head."

"You saying he's _possessed?_ "

"Something like that?" Matt pauses, brow furrowing in thought. "But like, by a dumb, benevolent spirit. One who likes to smell flowers and collect sparkly things.” He blinks. “So maybe.. a dumb, benevolent crow."

The casualty surrounding this statement implies that Keith is supposed to take this news in passing, the way one might turn on the weather and decide to wear a jacket. As everything stands, Keith isn't quite sure he isn't just dreaming all of this up.

Shiro isn't just a cryptid; that wouldn't be enough of a joke for the universe to play on him, oh no. He's a man with half a cryptid brain, a double-minded monster mash.

And both halves of his brain are fascinated with Keith.

How did Keith's evening turn into _this_?

"How long have you known about this?" Keith fixes Matt with an icy glare. "You never said anything the last time we saw you! We could have _died._ "  
  
"Mothman wouldn't do that," Matt says calmly. He smooths his palms over the planes of his jacket and has the audacity to look reproachful. "I was hoping maybe you'd be freaked enough to stop digging—a dumb idea, in retrospect. Pidge is too tenacious to let go of things she deems important."  
  
An understatement if Keith's ever heard one. They could have been seriously hurt by this, this _stupid bugman,_ and Matt was just going to take it all in stride. Was this how he got away with squatting on university grounds?

"You're seriously freaking out," Matt observes. "That's totally understandable. But I think we need to take a step back from the situation here." He raises both eyebrows and jerks a thumb back at where Mothman has begun to scuttle in small circles, shuffling in the dirt. "Shiro isn't in the right mind to defend himself. Don't you think that's a little unfair?"

"You want to talk unfair?" Keith snaps. "I've been crushing on Shiro for _weeks_ believing he's a regular student, and now you expect me to relax with the knowledge that the huge, six-foot Mothman lurking outside my window is the _same guy_ _?"_ He can feel spit flying from his mouth but honestly, he's beyond playing nice with this runaround. He wants to go _home._

"Okay, I'll admit the whole stalking thing is super uncool—"  
  
" _Uncool?"_

"But." Matt raises his hands out in a calming gesture. " _But._ You ever stopped to try reasoning with a giant bug? I guarantee it isn't very fruitful." His brow furrows. "I mean, look at him."  
  
Behind them, Mothman's settled on squatting up and down in place. His eyes stare at them blankly, and for the first time Keith sees something that might be vacancy rather than any menacing stare. He looks..

He looks like an idiot.

Keith feels his cheeks flaming. He's _not_ going to be shamed for assuming the worst. When the figment of nightmares is hulking over you, throwing glittery gifts at your window and flitting at your peripheral, what are you supposed to think?

"The big question here," Matt continues, "is what you're going to do now." He meets Keith's eyes.

What _is_ he going to do now? Shiro has to at least be halfway competent to keep a secret this big under wraps. He's clearly skilled at putting aside whatever _this_ is in favor of his education, his fraternity, his friends. Would Keith really come out and be a huge dick about exposing him?

Does he even want to?

Keith swallows and looks away. "If you’re worried I’m going to expose him, it's a waste of my time."

"Hmm." Matt kicks at the dirt. "That wasn't quite what I meant, but it's a start." He crosses his arms. "So, you gonna to stick around for when he turns back? It shouldn't be too much longer, if he's fumbling around like that." Mothman appears to be twitching avidly, wingtips brushing the ground as his shoulders rise and fall.

Keith exhales through his nose. What _else_ is he gonna do, take the hours to navigate the forest alone? He's competent, sure, but after the bombardment of info he doesn't want to move. He just needs to sit down for longer than ten minutes.

And he's got some questions that Shiro needs to answer to.

"I'll wait," he mutters. "And then I'm getting the hell out of here."

"That's the spirit." Matt smiles tiredly. "Let's find a place to sit then. Your legs will go numb, waiting like that."

They end up at the edge of the clearing, having found part of a felled tree big enough for the two of them to sit on. Matt busies himself with braiding together fern leaves, fingers nimbly twisting the pieces over and under to interlock. Keith watches him go through the motions with his arms crossed. He just wants this night to be over.

"How do you know about Shiro anyway?" He finally asks, after an incalculable amount of time has passed. The silence between them is heavy with exhaustion, stifled by Keith's own bitterness and his anger at being left out the loop. "Did he transform on you, or..?"

Matt pauses in his braiding. His lips curve up at the corners. "Something like that. It's complicated."  
  
"Isn't everything?" Keith mutters, but he knows better than to push. Once Shiro turns he'll press him for info like juice, and then they'll all be on the same page anyway. Easy.

The transformation itself is just as ugly the second time around. Keith winces but refuses to look away as Mothman's wings and shoulders bend inward, his body curling up like a shriveled citrus grating. Muscles jump and shudder. He lets out a low, grating buzz that almost sounds like groaning.

The exoskeleton cracks away in small chunks like old paint, flaking and crumbling into the soil at his knees. The red hairs smothering his head fall off like dried leaves. He ducks his head to hide how his eyes recede, shrinking back into his skull.

And then it's over.

Matt gets to his feet before Keith can think to react, flying across the clearing to kneel at Shiro's side. It's clear he's practiced in handling Shiro this way, what with how his hands flutter over the planes of Shiro's shoulders, patting at his arms and lifting his head to check his eyes. Shiro, pale and mildly sweaty, coughs around a low, hoarse voice.

"Matt? What's going on?" He licks dry lips. His eyes, feverish, flicker wildly before landing on Keith. He jerks back, face ashen, and stumbles back into the dirt. " _Keith_?"

"You're in the usual spot," Matt says in a soothing tone. "You changed for a little while, but—"  
  
"Impossible." Shiro rubs at one eye. He can't take his gaze off of Keith. "It's not even close to time, I don't—” He squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a low, rattling breath. “What’s happening to me?”

He sounds so small and pitiful that Keith’s gut churns, guilt rising unbidden from the recesses of his brain, but what is there to be guilty of?

Shiro tugs at his forelock in obvious distress, eyes snapping open. There are dark bruises under his eyelids as if he haven’t slept in days.

"Keith," he whispers. Dark eyes frantically scrape over Keith's rumpled form, taking in the sma;; bump on his lip and the mess of leaves and soil that stain his palms and jeans. He blinks up into Keith's face and his expression crumples like a wet napkin, eyes suddenly bright with tears. " _Keith._ "  
  
There's glass suddenly stuck in Keith's own throat, clawing at his soft insides, and he has the right mind to be irritated with himself. He's supposed to stay _mad._ He has a point to make here.

But how can he bear to scream at Shiro when he looks like he's just lost everything?

"I'm sorry," Shiro croaks. His voice breaks over and over. "God, I'm sorry. Please, tell me you didn't see it all."  
  
Keith's throat clenches tight. He rubs calloused thumbs over his knuckles and looks away, unable to admit the truth. Shiro makes a small, pitiful choking noise.

"Come on, stand up," Matt croons. He tucks his arms under Shiro's armpits and helps him stand. "We have to get you some food before you pass out."  
  
"How long?" Shiro whispers. Calloused hands tremble at the fingertips, clench tightly around the collar of Matt's flannel. "How long was I..?"

"Several hours. You didn't drink anything either, I don't think."  
  
Keith doesn't know what to say. He trails behind wordlessly as they make their way into the woods towards civilization.

 

Matt's campground looks exactly the same as the first time Keith woke in it, save for the dirty dishes stacked next to the camping stove. He hangs back by the fire while Matt situates Shiro on a sleeping bag and bundles him with blankets.

Matt glances over his shoulder. "Can you get a protein bar or something? There's several in that blue bin by the spigot sink."  
  
"Sure." Anything to keep himself busy and pretend he can't see how Shiro stares and stares. "Um. Any particular..?"

"One of the Luna bars, with lots of chocolate," Matt suggests. "Those are his favorites."  
  
"I'm right here," Shiro mumbles, but doesn't disagree. He takes the bar with the weakest of nods and rips it open, tearing savagely into the top third.

"Apparently being a cryptid burns a lot of calories," Matt explains mildly. The two of them watch Shiro inhale the rest of the energy bar at an alarming rate. He passes Shiro another one. "Remember to chew."  
  
Once there are only wrappers scattered around the sleeping tent, Matt sits back and takes a long draw from his water bottle. The wind stopped at some point during their trek, leaving the campsite devoid of any sound over the soft snapping of the campfire and Shiro's low, wheezing breaths. Keith clings to the edge of the tent and does his best to pace his own breathing. He only realizes too late that he's matched his inhalation with Shiro's exhales, timing their heartbeats to sync.

"I didn't mean for you to find out this way," Shiro murmurs. He stares bleakly at the mess of Matt's campsite. "I'm sorry."  
  
Keith chokes out a dry laugh. "You mean you were planning on telling me at all?"  
  
" _Yes._ " Shiro coughs, hacking into his fist. "Yes. When it was the right time, I was planning on it. When we'd gotten to know each other better.."  
  
Matt rises silently and drifts off to begin washing dishes. Keith watches his silhouette disappear into the foliage, wandering off to tap into the spigot just past the treeline.

"The right time," he echoes softly. "I don't think there _are_ any right times for something like this."  
  
"No," Shiro agrees. He shakes his head and buries his face in his hands. "You're right. I'm sorry."

There it is again. It feels like that’s all Shiro’s said since he awoke—even before that, when his mind was smothered with monstrous thoughts, Keith had heard the words over and over. _Sorry. I’m sorry._

But really, at this point, what is there left to apologize for?

"Stop that." Keith swallows around the shards in his chest. He clenches his fists. "Stop _apologizing_."

"What else am I supposed to say?!" Shiro lifts his head and stares him down. His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, hazy with what look dangerously close to tears. "What else _is_ there, when I can see how disgusted you are?"  
  
Keith blinks hard. "That's not—"  
  
"Don't placate me," Shiro snaps. "I can see it in your face. You hate me now, and I deserve it. What else do you want me to say?"

He sucks in a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. There are a million things in his head, flying around in cluttered, dark space like buzzards. He just wants to lay down and drown himself in sleep, to blanket his brain and keep all the revelations of the past hour away.

But this isn't a dream. And the way Shiro looks, beaten and broken, torches the bottom of Keith's heart something awful. He knows who Shiro is under the new moon, when his tongue tastes blood and his skin hardens into something unnatural and even, in some circles, _evil—_

But.

Shiro may be Mothman, but he's still also Shiro underneath it all. Keith can't just set fire to weeks of warm shoulders and shared coffees, to private whispers against sleepy ears and brushing hands and fingertips, shared looks over the stacks of books and jumbled quizzes. He can't just forget, even if his brain aches from the uncertainty of a future where he knows Mothman is tangible, breathing, watching.

"I don't hate you." He lifts his head slowly, drawing air from the recesses of his lungs. His chest is full of heavy weights threatening to crush every rib into dust, but he forces himself to stop. _Breathe._ "I don't forgive you for lying, but I don't hate you either."

Their eyes meet across the tent. A moment of silence stretches between them, solemn and heavy. Shiro rubs one hand over his jaw and shakes his head.

"You.." He wets his lips. "You don't?"

"No," Keith replies firmly. The more he says it, the more he knows it to be the truth. "You may be an ugly bugman half the time, but you're still _you_. And I—" He stops, running one hand through his hair. "..I don't want to give up whatever we've got. Even with all the extra stuff."

Shiro's expression twists from disbelief into something unnameable; his lips part softly, eyes fluttering shut for a second. He looks almost pained. But when he opens his eyes, the gentle timbre of his voice says everything.

"Me neither," he admits. He hunches his shoulders but still peeks up at Keith; even rumpled and bruised under his eyes, Keith can see the beginning of that sunshine peeking through the clouds again. "I don't want— I mean. If you're willing to have me even with all this baggage.." He sucks in a deep breath. "Are you sure?"

So much. There's so much they haven't considered—speed bumps and walls that might be waiting around the bend, ready to stumble Keith on this path he's chosen. The prospect honestly terrifies him. He doesn't know how they'll be able to manage it all.

But it's _Shiro._ And despite everything nebulous hanging over their heads, Keith can't deny the way his heart still flutters weakly at the sight of him. Even when he's hunched over too many Luna bar wrappers and looks ready to pass out for the next decade, he's still everything that makes Keith want to try and hold on.

Shiro and Mothman are two halves that fit, jagged corners and all, to make a whole. If he wants to cling to one piece he'll have to take the whole pie.

Well. Keith's always had a bit of a sweet tooth.

"I'm sure," he whispers, and the way Shiro's face lights up is enough to quell his fear of the unknown. Just for a little while.

.

**_Pidgey: hows ur date??_ **

**_Pidgey: i hope meaty boy isnt making a vegetarian out of u_ **

**_Pidgey: henlo?? is it going that well? shit_ **

**_Pidgey: alright. its almost 10. is meaty boy actually a meat eater?_ **

**_Pidgey: nvm dont answer that_ **

**_Pidgey: ..Keith?_ **

**_Chief Keef: hey. srry for making u worry. can we meet up soon?_ **

**_Pidgey: ofc. gonna give me all the deets?_ **

**_Chief Keef: yeah. something like that._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little short because there's a lot of mothnanigans going on (and im also in the middle of finals..) but i promise next chapter will back up to speed! also, believe it or not, but we've only reached the tip of the iceberg on what i have planned for beef keef and shothman.. 
> 
> thoughts? predictions? toss em down below, or come say hi on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	7. Moth! In the Name of Love

Afternoons at Pidge's are enjoyable for a couple of reasons. For one, Keith enjoys how the sun spills through their balcony, dappling the university-standard carpet with negatives of shivering tree limbs and passing birds. The balcony will stay open until the days become as cold as nights, letting cool fall flavors and tickling breezes splash over couches and plain countertops. It's all the pleasure of being outside with complimentary Wi-Fi.

For another reason, Keith loves how cozy their home feels. Allura has an awful habit of leaving a trail of glitter behind wherever she walks, concentrating in her own single before flooding out to spangle kitchen tile and living room cushions. The residue would be frustrating anywhere else, but there's something privately charming about walking into a home that sparkles. Between mismatched decorative cushions and walls covered in a myriad of band posters and tourist trap ads (for example, a framed "I Visited the 100-Foot Paul Bunyan", courtesy of Pidge) he always feels like he's stepped into some jumbled version of his grandma Belle's motorhome.

But the best reason to visit Pidge's apartment? It isn't the free food Allura flings at them when they walk through the sliding glass, or the always-available Wii tucked under the TV box. It isn't even the star projector they whip out sometimes to chill underneath.

Allura's got  _ pets. _

Keith doesn't know how he got so lucky. One day he barely knows Allura enough to wave awkwardly when they make eye contact and the next she's ushering him into her personal space to meet her children.

He has a creeping suspicion, based on the way her eyes light up when he shuffles up to the glass, that he's probably said too much during their last encounter. Or maybe Allura's just that friendly and eager to please. Either way he ends up hovering over a fluffy pink rug in her single, fighting a losing battle against the lily-scented air freshener. How do rats  _ breathe _ in here?

"Here's Aratstotle," she announces, holding up a huge golden rat. "You can hold him, he's very mellow." She plops him right into Keith's open hands without preamble, grinning bright enough to nearly blind him. "Isn't he lovely?"

"He's.. a big rat." Not that rodents gross Keith out or anything, but he hadn't expected to be handling pets before his next trip home. They weren't exactly a commonality on campus.

He holds Aratstotle up to his face and can't help the smile creeping onto his lips; his fur is super soft, and his whiskers  _ tickle. _

"And here's Pythagorat," she chimes, balancing a slender rat in each hand, "and Socrates. Say hello, children." Pythagorat and Socrates stare at Keith curiously, noses twitching. As he watches, one of them tries to climb up Allura's arm to settle into her collar. She giggles and sets them down onto the bed to walk about. 

"What about that one?" Keith nods towards the last rat in the enclosure, with a short, stocky body and unnaturally large ears. Allura laughs like tinkling wind chimes.

"That's Prato." She sits down carefully, allowing the rats to climb into her lap and fiddle with the sheer sleeves of her shirt. "He was the runt of his family. He's a bit shy, though, so we'll let him look for now."

Keith helps himself to the huge, fuzzy shag carpet. Aratstotle trundles about between his spread thighs, nibbling gently at the fraying threads of his black jeans.

"So." He blinks up at Allura. She's leaning forward with one palm propping her chin up, eyes trained on Keith. As she tilts her head, sunlight catches on her bright, glittery eyeshadow and turns her face into a dazzling array of rosy sparkles. "How's Shiro?"

_ There it is.  _ He knew there had to be an ulterior motive. Who would let a rando hang out in their room when they've only properly met twice?

( _ Shiro,  _ his brains supplies unhelpfully. Keith ignores it.)

It's a great question though. How  _ is  _ Shiro? After their solemn departure from Matt's campsite they hadn't shared a single word beyond farewells. What would they have even said? Everything felt contrite after their talk in the woods.

The dark shores of sleep swamped Keith the second his head hit his pillow, pulling him into a tide of uncertain, ambiguous dreams. He dreamed of wood smoke and glowing red eyes, of icy metal between his teeth and a sky black enough to swallow the Earth. Fourteen hours later, numb limbed, he couldn't even decide if the sleep was fitful. It was as if everything Thursday had been a dream in itself, trapped in the liminal space of the night.

He skips his 8am biology section to sleep in. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd gone anyway; when he fishes his phone out there's only one message from Shiro.

**Shiro: missing section. sorry.**

There are no pieces he can pick up from a text like that. He leaves it on read and goes on with his day.

It's been twelve hours now since the encounter in the woods. Shiro is still off the map and will probably stay that way until classes on Monday draw him out into public. Keith can't honestly blame him; if the downturn of his mouth and the heavy under-eye circles were any indication, turning into a cryptid had to be as demanding as fighting off an impending cold.

_ No wonder Shiro's addicted to caffeine _ , Keith realizes.  _ He probably needs it just to get his eyes open. _

"I don't know," he says, remembering Allura wanted an answer. He watches Aratstotle crawl up onto one leg and shove his rat nose through a knee-tear in his jeans. "Okay, I guess." As okay as anyone can be after a Thursday like that.

"Hmm." Allura twists a strand of silvery hair between two manicured fingers. "You guys went on a date yesterday, right?"

"How do you know about that?"

She smiles, eyebrows raising, but doesn't say anything.

_ Alright.  _ "It was fine." He didn't come here to be interrogated again by Allura. "Where's Pidge?"

If Allura's disappointed by how he clams up, she doesn't let it on. She tucks Socrates into one palm and runs a finger over the patch between his ears, lips still curled up primly. "Went out to get her mail. She should be back any minute now."

"I'm back already,” Pidge announces, appearing in the doorway. Between her Bigfoot pajamas, neon green slippers, and the fat magazine tucked under one armpit, she looks like an old dad getting ready to read the news on the toilet.

"It's two in the afternoon," Keith remarks by way of greeting. 

"I've changed my underwear." She waves one hand, dismissing his comment. "Having fun with Aratstotle?" 

"Yeah." He cups said rat into his hands before standing and passes him carefully to Allura. "Uh. Thanks for letting me hang out with your rats." 

"Any time," she chimes, white teeth flashing. "You're like an honorary housemate, after all."

"Right." He jams his hands into his back pockets. "Thanks."

They swing by the kitchen to make Nutella-and-peanut-butter sandwiches before hiding out in Pidge's room. Her curtains are still drawn, pepper lights blinking frenetically like a rave. Pidge flops into her desk chair and swivels dramatically with her sandwich crammed between her teeth. She snaps out the magazine and tosses it at Keith.

"Take a look," she mumbles through a mouthful. "It's this month's issue of the city beat."

He flips through the first couple of pages. Ads on cars for sale. A Halloween walk on the 28th. Someone’s interviewed the owners of the 80's diner on main street, complete with a cheesy photo of them beaming on either side of an old-fashioned milkshake.

"Is there something I'm supposed to be looking at here?" He looks up to see Pidge tearing the crust off her sandwich. "Pidge?"

She crams all the crusty bits in her mouth at once. "Page fifteen," she mumbles. "Halfway down."

It's an article on home safety. There are tips about how to secure windows against burglars, tips on updating security software. There's even a list of hotlines to call for suspicious behavior.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" He raises an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I change the locks in my bedroom? There are cheaper ways to keep Lance out."

" _ No. _ " She rolls her eyes. "It's for your  _ window. _ You know, since you have Mr. Bug-eyed on your case. Safety measures."

Oh. Keith carefully lowers the magazine in his lap. "About that.." 

Pidge abruptly stops spinning in her chair and nearly sends her sandwich flying into the sliding glass. " _ You saw him again? _ " 

"No! Well yes, I did, but—" 

"Did he come up to your window?" Her eyes bug behind her glasses. "Did he  _ come inside?" _

"No, Pidge! God!" Does Mothman even know how to use window latches? "I just, uh. Came to realize a couple things." He pauses. "We need to go over what happened yesterday." 

She frowns, eyeballing which area to rip into her sandwich first. "Your date with Shiro? What does that have to do with Mothman?" Her eyes flick up. "Did you actually tell him about your cryptid stalker?"

"No." He stares emptily at his sandwich. When did he smear Nutella on his jeans? "I didn't have to, actually. Because he already knew." 

"How?"

He raises the sandwich up to his mouth and takes a huge bite. Peanut-butter sticks to the roof of his mouth instantly, caking his palette in sweet-salty nutty flavor. He waits until the bite has totally turned to mash in his mouth, swallowing carefully, and looks up at Pidge.

"Because he is Mothman."

Pidge, who had her sandwich half-raised to her mouth, sets it down carefully on her thighs. She adjusts her glasses and gives Keith a level look. Takes a deep breath. 

"Sorry, I think I just misheard you. Care to repeat that?"

"Shiro." Keith picks at a stray piece of crust nervously and refuses to look at how Pidge's expression morphs from serenity to something like comic-book horror. "Shiro is Mothman."

They stare at each other in silence for a long moment. Pidge's sandwich falls to the floor with a soft  _ thump,  _ smearing Nutella all over the carpet.

"Oh my God," she croaks. "You're not kidding."

“I wish I was.” Keith squishes the ripped crust between two fingers until it's a flat pancake, thin enough to be a cracker, or maybe one of those sweet wafers his aunt really likes. 

Pidge sucks in a deep breath. And another. She rubs at her eyes frantically behind her glasses.

"Okay. Okay. We can work with this." She nods furiously, spinning around in her seat to tear open drawers with aggression so sudden that Keith nearly jumps off the bed. "Where is it—"  
  
"Pidge?" Her whole desk rattles with the effort of her throwing everything around. A half-empty bag of chocolate pretzels flops onto the floor and scatters chocolatey bits. "What are you—"  
  
"The notes," she mutters. "I have to find— Here we go.” She rips the leather-bound book out from underneath a stack of crumpled papers and smacks it onto the desk, flipping it open to frantically leaf through the pages. She leans back, eyes flickering around. "A pen, I have to find—"  
  
Keith can't tell if sudden fervor is a good reaction or not. He slides off the bed and takes an uncertain step forward, ready to grapple with Pidge if need be. He doesn't know  _ why  _ he'd have to tackle her but just in case— 

"Keith." Her voice is razor-sharp, edging on thin enough to break into a million pieces. "Tell me everything you know."  
  
He stares at the back of her head. Pidg’s hair sticks up in little pieces like duck fluff. The reflection of chili-lights off her glasses does nothing to betray her expression.

"..About Shiro?"

"Yes. Tell me everything you know." She turns halfway, staring up at him seriously. If she chews any harder there's going to be a cut in her lip to match Keith's. "Word for word."  
  
Somehow, this wasn't quite the reaction he was expecting.

"You're not shocked?" He shuffles up to Pidge's desk space. She heaves a huge sigh, running her penned hand through one hair. The pen leaves a mark on her cheek, huge and dark against soft skin.

"No. I'm  _ freaking the fuck  _ out right now, Keith, but it's already been twelve hours since your date and if we don't get this data fresh then who knows when we'll be able to have another opportunity."  
  
He stares at her for a long moment. She stares back, both eyebrows raising into her hairline, and taps the pen expectantly against the page.

"Alright. Then.." He leans against the desk and rubs one thumb against the grain, following the glimmer of wet ink across the page.  _ Keith's First Date.  _ What a title.

"From the moment you found out," she repeats. "Keith?"

"Yeah, I just." He pauses, sucking in a soft breath. Sees that tired, bruised face again in the back of his head—has the sudden, overwhelming urge to text him and ask if he's okay. He swallows the fluttering in his gut and wipes his palms against his jeans. "Um. So the date was just finishing up, and I.."  


By the time they're done Keith's completely hoarse, his voice grating weakly against chords that already suffer the effects of poor sleep for several days in a row. He coughs and swallows his own saliva, knees jelly-like from standing still for so long.

Pidge sits back in her chair and sighs long and slow. She takes her glasses off and carefully lays them on the desk over several pages of fresh, color-coded bullets and detailed paragraphs.

They sit in silence for several long moments.

"Matt has a lot of explaining to do," she mutters. Her own voice wears thin—an hour's worth of furious questioning, extrapolating, even squealing at some points—and she coughs into one fist. "That jerk."

"Yeah."

They stare blankly at the notes. Keith finds his gaze narrowing in on how the wet ink reflects the overhead lighting, just like the black ooze that poured over Shiro's skin,  _ swallowing  _ him. The memory presses on Keith's own lungs as if he's the one who experienced it.

Carefully, he flips his phone out of his pocket and turns it on. Still zero messages.

He bites his lip.  _ Shiro just needs time to rest,  _ half his brain insists.  _ Let him be.  _ And yet..

**Keith: hey. hope you're doing alright**

Keith's never been a hoverer, but he has the miserable feeling that his life is about to take on some new trends.

Pidge snaps the solemn moment over one knee with a low, barking laugh. He blinks down at her tiredly and raises an eyebrow. "What's so funny?" He demands. Pidge shakes her head and laughs even harder, face buried into her palms. "Pidge—"

"This is nuts. You're—" She pauses, sucking in a deep breath. "You're  _ dating a bugman. _ "  
  
"Way to put it into perspective," he says wryly.   
  
"I can't believe this." She plants her face onto the desk, resting her unmarked cheek onto the fresh notes. "All those weeks of us hunting him down in the woods and he's been  _ right there. _ God. I should have seen it coming."  
  
"I don't think that would have been possible."  
  
" _ Cryptid, _ " Pidge breathes. She blinks up at him from the desk. "You're dating a fucking  _ cryptid _ , Keith. Can you believe it?"

"No," he deadpans. "I can't. But here we are."

"Here we are," she echoes tiredly. She lifts her head just enough for Keith to see colored pen marks smearing across her skin. "Hey, can you grab those pretzels? I'm  _ starving _ ."

.

Keith's never been one to be surgically attached to his phone. Growing up, his aunt practically had to fight a charged cell into his pocket before he left the house. Even into high school he was awful about remembering to check his messages every couple of hours, not because of willful ignorance, but simply because there wasn't any reason to check. He didn't have any friends. His aunt would call if something was really important. His phone was only an effective clock when there wasn't one already in view.

And yet. Sitting here at the kitchen table, trying to study for his midterm while turning over his cell for maybe the second time in a minute, he’s recognizing that maybe he's got a problem.

"Dude." Lance watches him pick it up and put it back down again with a huff. "You waiting on a call from the president or something?"

Keith scowls and shoves his phone under the open cover of his textbook. "No."  
  
"You sure? Cause—" He pauses, raising an eyebrow as Keith peeks at the screen from under the flap. "You look like your phone is going to explode any second now."  
  
"It's not," Keith snaps. He takes the phone out from under the flap and flips it over.  _ There.  _ Now even if Shiro bothers to text back, he won't know. It's better that way.

_ But what if it isn't?  _ It's been two full days since Shiro morphed into a giant, proboscis-wielding animorph—two full days of Keith reliving his transformation down to the cellular level, black ink dripping out of his pores to suffocate him as his body crunches and ripples and  _ reforms itself _ — 

"You look like you're gonna hurl," Lance observes mildly. "You coming down with the flu? Is that what this is? You know, low immunity causes skin dullness over time."   
"Thanks for the tip," Keith grits, shoving the sudden, ugly memories into a dark corner. He jams his face into his mug fast enough to bump his front teeth on the lip and slosh tea onto his book. "Son of a—"  
  
Lance is already on the case, swooping in with a clump of paper towels before Keith can so much as throw his still-worn t-shirt onto the hundred-dollar book. He dabs expertly at where a huge, wrinkly spot is beginning to form, right over the detailed description of sodium-potassium pumps. In a moment all that's left is an unsightly orange splotch, wrinkling at the edges where the pages threaten to meld.

They both stare in silence at the ugly splatter.   
  
"You know," Lance murmurs, setting down the used paper towels gently, "if something's bugging you, you can tell me, right? Like, I get that we aren't best friends, but if something's  _ really  _ getting to you, you can always just come and find me." He shrugs with one shoulder and spins around, tossing the paper towels into the trash. "I don't know. I wouldn't come to me, personally, but I've heard it helps."  
  
They lapse into silence again. Lance goes back to cutting up fruit into tiny, even cubes; first cantaloupe, then pineapple and strawberries. The cutting knife makes even, quiet clacking noises on their battered cutting board, frayed by midnight culinary escapades a la Hunk.   
  
"It's Shiro." 

Keith pauses. Lance looks up from where he's slicing grapes into even halves, mouth parted. They blink at each other.

_ Are we doing this now?  _ Lance's expression says frantically. Keith stares back, his own eyes huge.

_ I didn't think this far. What do I say  _ now?

"Shiro," Lance finally echoes, after they've both processed that  _ yes,  _ this is happening. Somehow. "What about him?"

Keith closes his textbook so he doesn't have to stare at that ugly stain; if he's lucky they'll buy back the book without flipping through the pages. He sucks in a soft breath and exhales slowly.

"We went on a date."  
  
The kitchen knife drops onto the counter with a clatter. "You  _ what? _ " Blue eyes bug out comically, fingers grasping at open air. "When? How?"

Keith shrugs. "Thursday. We had burritos."

"Ohmygosh." He slides one hand over his eyes and exhales noisily. "Don't tell me. You went to Fat Sal's for your first date?"

Keith's shoulders rise. "Where else were we gonna go?" He mutters defensively. "I wanted a fucking burrito. I don't see why that matters."  
  
"Nothing, I just—" Lance drops his hand and gives Keith a long look. He sighs again and picks up the knife to continue halving grapes. "Okay," he says, eyes flickering between Keith and the task at hand. "You went to Sal's. Then what?"

"Then.. we hung out." He runs one finger along the withered, wrinkly edges of the book cover. "Walked around. Got some candy."

If Lance has something to say about their choice of date, he holds his tongue. "Uh-huh. And then what?"

_ He turned into a huge fucking monster and flew away with me,  _ Keith's brain helpfully supplies. "Nothing," he says. "We came back and that was it."  
  
Lance's cutting slows. His head jerks up suddenly, mouth curled down into something of a pout. "That's  _ it?  _ No hand-holding? You guys didn't kiss?"

Heat immediately rises to Keith's face, washing him in a sudden itchy urge to flee from the room. He ignores it in favor of rocking back and forth in his seat. He bites the tip of his tongue.

"Ikindafuckedup."  
  
Now Lance is really not pretending to cut fruit anymore. His eyebrows both raise. "I'm sorry, repeat that?"

"I uh. I fucked up." Keith scowls in his own embarrassment.  _ Fucking up  _ was an understatement. He's pretty sure he was the one who caused Shiro to bug out on top of ruining his first kiss. Not that it wasn't— wasn’t  _ exciting _ , or whatever you want to call it, but God. Fucking up doesn't even begin to cover it.

Lance, to his credit, doesn't immediately fly off the handle and point fingers. He covers his face again and laugh-groans into his palms.   
  
"Define,  _ fucked up _ ," he mumbles through his hands. "Like, you puked on him again, or?"

Keith sinks down into his chair far enough to bring the table to his chin. Maybe, if he's  _ really  _ lucky, the earth will swallow him up and he won't have to finish retelling this story.   
  
"I hit him in the face," he says mournfully. He rubs at a sticky spot on the edge of the table. "With my own face."

"You—" Lance peeks through his fingers and exhales sharply. He drops his hands. "You  _ what _ ?"

"I'm not going to repeat myself, God—" 

"Hold on. Wait." He sucks in a slow breath. "You tried to kiss him. And missed?" He takes Keith's grim silence for what it is, and his mouth opens with a soft  _ pop.  _ "How do you  _ miss?  _ He was right there, wasn't he?"

"I don't know!" Keith snaps, feeling himself flush down his neck. "Why don't  _ you  _ try kissing someone for the first time, and then tell me— " 

"Your  _ first kiss! _ " Lance shrieks. "You fucked up your first kiss!" 

"Keith did  _ what?"  _ Hunk pokes his head into the living room. "Who is Keith kissing?"

"It's none of your business," he snarls, just as Lance opens his fat mouth and half-squeals Shiro’s name. He looks to be on the verge of tears, gripping the corner of the kitchen counter with white-knuckled hands. 

"This is awful, don't get me wrong, but  _ holy fuck _ —" 

"Alright, I fucking get it—" 

"How do you miss?" Hunk says, utterly baffled. "Isn't his face supposed to be close enough that you can't  _ miss _ ?"

"This is the best day of my life." Lance closes his eyes and tilts his head back towards the ceiling. "Thank you Jesus."

Keith stands, cheeks hot enough to scramble eggs. "I'm leaving." 

"No, nonono. Sit. I want to hear about your date with Shiro!" Hunk flutters further into the room, snapping a kitchen towel across Lance's butt. "Stop laughing, that's  _ rude.  _ Keith, you want some fruit salad?"

"He's already fruity," Lance groans, wiping his tears. "He doesn't need any." 

Hunk staunchly ignores his best friend and tugs the bowl away from him, throwing in apple slices and orange pieces with a dexterity that would strike fear into the hearts of cooking show competitors. "You like bananas, right Keith?"

"You bet he—" 

"Sure," Keith says flatly. "Bananas are fine."

They end up seated at the tiny kitchen table with a massive bowl of chopped fruit between them. Hunk spoons careful portions into each of their bowls. Lance takes his and promptly smothers it in a massive block of canned whipped cream. Hunk makes a face but doesn’t comment.

"Alright," Hunk says, when they've all been served enough. He pops a strawberry into his mouth and leans in eagerly over his bowl. "Start from square one." 

_ Square one.  _ What even counts as square one? Keith shrugs. "We went to Sal's?"

"For your first date?" His mouth parts in a brief moment of horror, but he shakes his head. "No. That's okay. What's most important here is what Shiro ordered." Lance nods sagely. "What did he get?"

"Uh." His eyes flicker between the two of them. What is he missing here? "I don't know. A burrito, I guess. With chicken." 

"That's half the menu," Lance says impatiently. "Gimme a number." 

"Jesus, I don't know— a ten. Let's just say a number ten." 

"Ooh, no-go," Hunk says sympathetically. "No wonder your date ended poorly. Ten is a bad luck order."

"Really? I thought it was a seven—" 

“Does it  _ matter _ ?”

“Wh— of  _ course  _ it matters, Fat Sal’s burritos are fortune-telling and—” 

This conversation has to be the most ridiculous thing Keith's had to witness all week,  _ including  _ an unplanned crash course in Mothman antics.

Lance waves one hand. "Okay, okay. And then what? You guys go see a movie or something?"

"We walked around." He shrugs and stuffs a lump of cantaloupe behind one cheek. "Talked. It wasn't too crazy."  _ Until he grew wings out of his back.  _ "Came back to campus. That was all."

"All, including you fucking up your first kiss," Lance reminds him cheerfully. "And then you came home, right? How come I didn't hear you come in?"

Fuck. He hadn't even thought about Lance sleeping below him. "I don't know," he mutters, shrugging. "I was quiet." It's a poor excuse considering Lance doesn't quite sleep like the dead, but Lance doesn’t question it with more than a thoughtful frown.

"So what happens now?" Hunk pops two banana bits into his mouth at once. "Are you going to have a second date? Is he going to try to kiss you next time?" He pauses, eyes widening comically as his mouth drops open. "Oh God, please tell me there's a next time." 

Keith's eyes flicker to his phone. Still no notifications. 

"Don't tell me. He still hasn't texted you back?" Lance looks genuinely alarmed. 

He scowls. "No, that's not it. I just.." How to put this? "Um. He looked like he was coming down with something. Just making sure he isn't too sick." 

"Sick with the flu?" Lance leans in and points a finger. "Or sick of you?"

Alright, this conversation is over. "Too much longer and  _ I'm _ going to be sick of  _ you _ ," Keith retorts, popping an orange slice into his mouth. The citrus makes his cheeks ache, and he savors it as something to chew on so they can't see how his mouth turns down. Shiro would definitely say something if he didn't want to go on another date.. right? He didn't quite strike Keith as the type to drop off the face of the Earth.

_ That's more your style,  _ part of his brain snipes unhelpfully. The voice almost sounds like Pidge.  _ And didn't he say he wanted to try again? _

Everything was going to be fine. He just had to keep faith in Shiro. He's been doing this for what, years now? If something was really wrong, then he'd tell Keith.

Right?

.

The weekend passes in phases of pacing, studying, and staring at the clock ticking. Midterm season approaches like an oncoming hurricane, stirring the peaceful docks of student complacency into emergency protocol. Keith's never been a great studier, but working with Shiro brought its own peace of mind. Poring over his textbooks in solitude again feels.. empty, somehow. It's a strange sensation he's rarely been privy to.

And then, Sunday evening, Keith slips out of the shower to a text.

**Shiro: hey, sorry for getting back to you so late. rough weekend. everything is fine now.**

A dubious announcement, but one Keith isn't going to argue. He's not going to address how the mere sight of Shiro's response calms the snarled knot in his gut. He wipes damp palms on his pajamas and texts back.

**Keith: glad to know ur feeling better.**

He's careful to crack open the bathroom window so the humidity doesn't condense on the wall paint and makes his way down the hall. Lance has lit some of his study candles, filling the bedroom with the cloying sweetness of vanilla. He lays in a fluffy robe, leafing through his textbooks with the casual boredom of someone reading a celebrity magazine.

Keith plunks himself down in his office chair and stares at his phone. It's not enough. He wants to say more, but how do you follow up a weekend of silence? His thumbs hover uncertainly over the keyboard long enough for another message to ping in.

**Shiro: forgot our midterm was this week. do you want to meet to study? ill buy you lunch. my treat.**

**Keith: sure. as long as i also get a hot chocolate**

**Shiro: whatever you want (: how about we meet tomorrow?**

"Somebody's smiling," Lance taunts. He's peering at Keith over the top of his textbook, perfectly-plucked eyebrows wiggling behind his face mask. "Did Shiro finally text you back?"

Keith hesitantly touches his lips. He hadn't even realized he was making any expression at all, and the realization that he  _ is  _ smiling sends a thrill of warmth up to his ears.

"Yeah," he mutters, caught. "He did."

His phone pings with a third text as he crawls up into his bunk and settles down for the evening. He waits until his feet are perfectly wrapped in his under-sheet and the comforter is brought up to his nose to peek at his phone over the layers.

**Shiro: i want to make it up to you as best i can.**

Keith chews his lip. Even as the knot of anxiety relaxes, another bubbling thrill of nervousness is beginning to tickle his insides. Hesitantly, he brings his phone closer to his face.

**Keith: tomorrow is fine. see u in lecture**

**Shiro: see you then. sleep well, keith**

The bubbling in his stomach strengthens. His toes twitch without his consent, wriggling nervously under his blankets. He doesn't notice Lance smiling to himself as he plucks through his textbook, or how he shakes his head.

**Keith: sleep well shiro.**

.

He's not quite sure what he was expecting. Maybe trace bruises, or the fading traces of illness in Shiro's stature, in his smile. Keith slouches into the lecture hall ten minutes early and finds Shiro already there, bright and perky in the second row. He's leaning forward to chatter avidly to some girl in front of him but catches Keith's eye the second he drifts up close to the row of seats.

"Keith! I saved you a spot." He beams, teeth flashing like freshly-fallen snow, and Keith can’t help but wonder if it’s exhausting, shining like that.

"Morning," he mumbles, sinking into the mentioned spot. Shiro's notes are already all out, black coffee steaming at the corner of his desk, his wet hair tucked under another snapback. The white forelock sticks out oddly above the cinch in a mess of stray hairs across his forehead. Keith swallows the urge to fix it for him and jams his hands further into his jacket’s unipocket.

"Did you sleep well?" Shiro asks, turning just enough to nudge Keith's ankle with his foot. The minor contact sends a tingle up his whole leg, but neither of them bother to move. Keith stares into warm almond eyes. There are tiny, baby smile lines at the corners of Shiro's eyes, gently crinkling as his lips curve into a soft smile. "This weekend, I mean." 

"Yeah." He tears his gaze away to pull out his notebook and shuffle open to a clear page. "Did you?"

Shiro's mouth quirks oddly. He tilts his head and shrugs. "I did my best. Nothing I'm not already used to."

"Guess that explains the coffee, then."

Shiro laughs. "Nah, I'm just addicted." But the way he drinks it down faster after that, knocking back the liquid even though it has to be near-boiling, says otherwise.

The lights flicker off and their professor begins lecture at breakneck speed. They've apparently been going too slow the past couple of lectures (though how, Keith doesn't know—he's barely been able to write fast enough as it is) and now have to make up for lost time before their midterm on Friday. He settles into hunching over his notes, wrist taking on the familiar ache of too-early stress and slow, cold-stiff muscles.

When their professor pauses to take a sip of water, Shiro shifts suddenly close. "Sorry," he murmurs, leaning in, "I missed that last slide." Keith stays stock still and breathes in Shiro's spicy cologne. He doesn't dare turn his head to see what Shiro's looking at— he's too close to try it without them bumping heads—and mumbles something like assent.

When Shiro shifts away his leg bumps against Keith's again, burning a warm line from ankle to kneecap. Keith sucks in a soft breath but doesn't try to move away. Their legs end up pressed together for the rest of the lecture.

 

Even with Redwood Roasters packed to the gills they still manage to find a cozy table crammed into one corner. Keith has already taken on the conundrum of fitting two meals  _ and  _ all of their notes and books onto the tiny space. It'll be a tight fit—if he can get his biology text to stop shoving the cutlery onto the floor.

As promised, Shiro plunks down a steaming hot chocolate on top of Keith's open textbook. He snatches it up in an instant, curling cold fingertips around the cup sleeve to draw in some of the warmth. The smell immediately makes his mouth water.

"Thanks," he says, inhaling sugary sweetness. "I owe you."  
  
"Nope," Shiro replies cheerfully. He sets down his own drink— _ another  _ coffee, it looks like— on top of his notebook. "I owe  _ you _ , remember? This is me starting to make it up to you." He slides into his chair and begins pitching in on their textbook tetris.

Keith studies him carefully over the top of his cup. Sitting a proper distance away allows him to take in the gentle sag of Shiro's shoulders, the soft wrinkles in all of his clothes. Shiro's put together enough for public, sure—but is he  _ put together? _

How does he even go about asking something like that?

Shiro's gaze flickers up and catches him staring. "What?" He raises his eyebrows. "Is there something on my face?"

"No." Keith ducks his head to take his first sip and promptly burns his tongue. Wincing, he shoves the drink to the far side of the table. "Just.. wanted to know if you were okay."  
  
Shiro frowns. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Do you really want me to make the list?"

He sits back and sighs. "I told you. It happens.. monthly. I'm used to it."  
  
"That doesn't mean you're  _ okay _ , though." Keith can still see his shell-shocked expression, the haggard look on a face pale enough to match the full moon. "I saw how you looked, and it wasn't good." His mouth twists. "Does it always.."  _ Look like that? Hurt like that? _

_ Does it ever get any better? _

"I'm used to it," Shiro repeats. His brows draw together and he looks away, taking a long sip from his coffee. "You don't have to worry about me."  
  
_ Too late,  _ Keith wants to bite back.  _ I've already worried all weekend.  _ But the guarded look in Shiro’s eyes tells him it's time to let go.  _For now._

When Shiro returns from grabbing their food, any trace of their conversation seems to have sloughed right off his skin. He slides Keith's plate onto the table with flourish and slams his own on top of all of his work. Keith rips into his chicken bake with all the ferocity a first meal deserves, savoring gooey cheese and soft bread. The hot food feels good in his stomach after how frigid their lecture hall had been.

"Do you not eat breakfast?" Shiro asks when half of his bake has disappeared. He makes his way through his own sandwich at an even pace, plowing through layers of meat and tomato like a man on a mission.

"No." Keith tears away a stray thread of mozzarella. "Takes too much time."

"Too much—” Shiro breaks off. "But it's the most important meal of the day! That can't be healthy."  
  
"That's what Hunk says," Keith admits, shrugging. "Oh well."

"'Oh well' nothing," Shiro huffs. "That's silly to deprive yourself like that. What's the point of paying for a meal plan if you aren't going to use it?"

"It's not like they have anything  _ good. _ " Keith wrinkles his nose. "Why don't  _ you  _ trying having the same freezer sausages everyday, and then get back to me. If I wanted to shovel shit down my throat I could just go out and eat dirt."  
  
Shiro raises both eyebrows. "I lived on campus for two years. Those freezer sausages saved my life during finals."  
  
"No wonder you eat everything too spicy," Keith sniffs. "Your taste buds are shot."  
  
Shiro flicks wet tomato onto Keith's plate and doesn't dignify that with a reply.

They stack their plates when they've finished and settle into several weeks of material. Keith's already made himself familiar with Shiro's chicken scratch to the point of reading it upside down; between his superior reading skills and Shiro's mini tablet, they plow through two powerpoints' worth of material in an hour.

When they take a break to bus their dishes and stretch, Keith remembers to check his phone.

**Lance: hey were out of toilet paper**

**Lance: ...**

**Lance: its ur turn to buy if ur wondering**

Figures. Keith wrinkles his nose and places his phone facedown. If Lance is going to waste that much toilet paper taking extensive shits, then  _ he  _ can buy extra. When he announces this aloud, Shiro snorts and nearly dumps his coffee down his front.

"I can take you by CVS if you want," he offers once he's recovered. "It'll be faster than taking the bus." Keith shakes his head.

Shiro's already done enough today to make Keith feel like he owes him a week's worth of favors. Things like opening doors and saving seats, buying meals and hot chocolate--they're all things Keith's never really dealt with aside from Pidge, and they always split everything evenly.

"No, it's fine. I'll handle it myself."

"If you say so." He sighs, rubbing one hand over his face. "Want to call it a day with this?"

Keith glares at the pile of notes in the middle of the table. "How about a week?"  
  
"And fail the midterm? I thought you cared more than that." Shiro raises his eyebrows.  
  
"Who said anything about failing?" Keith sniffs. "I can ace that class with my eyes closed."  
  
"Well, we aren't all geniuses. Some of us get by with hard work." He chuckles at Keith's dramatic eye-roll. "You can text me if you want to study together again."  
  
As if it was a hard choice to make. "Sure."

The air's plenty cool when they make their way back outside, tingling lightly at Keith's fingertips and ears with tiny, nipping bites. He wriggles his way further down into his sweatshirt and pulls the hood up over his head.

Shiro smiles softly at the sight of him all tucked into his clothes. "You sure you don't want a ride?"

"I'm fine," Keith says. "The bus will be here in just a sec."  
  
"If you're sure.." He pauses, fiddling with his snapback. "Um. I'll see you around?"

"'Course."

Shiro shifts in place for a moment, fingers running over the zipper of his own jacket. Before Keith can ask him what's wrong he swoops in and presses his lips to Keith's cheek. Keith freezes, hands still in his unipocket, and Shiro pulls away with a bashful smile.

"See you then," he breathes.

The flow of pedestrians carries him into traffic. Cars pass in droves, making their way out to afternoon breaks. A campus loop bus swings by and pours students out like an open water pitcher.

Keith stands in the middle of the sidewalk with a hand pressed to his cheek. He replays the warm graze of Shiro's lips in his head, over and over, until the metro comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> midterms are still a thing, even if you spend the whole weekend cryptid hunting. tough luck, Keith.
> 
> im finally on winter break (3 weeks!) so chapters should get meatier.. only the meatiest for the best meaty boy. 
> 
> catch me on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/) or leave a comment below! your reactions make the world go round (:


	8. Mothly Reasonable Plans

Morning takes precedence over all other functions of life. Dew glistens from the tips of every tree like minute diamonds, shattering to tumble in free-fall by skittering squirrels and fat robins. The sky, stewed in fog and churlish grey clouds, churns and begins to break with the rise of the sun; steady greyscale breaks into watery shades of goldenrod and pearly pink, bleeding life and light onto a cold, damp landscape. The flowers stretch their petals open to greet the new dawn, embracing soft kisses that solidify into sunbeams. The world is anew.

And then, as the clock ticks past nine, the doors to the general lecture halls burst open and pour gaggles of noisy, exhausted students into the fray.

"I didn't expect the short answer portion to be so difficult," Shiro grumbles, fiddling with his snapback. "My right arm feels like it's going to fall off."

"You can say that again." Keith stretches his hands carefully, taking the time to flex every finger and pop every joint. His hand feels like some approximation to a gnarled tree limb, warped permanently into ugly, bent shapes.

Morning's chill slashes the heat from exposed cheeks, reddening skin where it cleanses them of the lecture hall's humidity. Piling hundreds of students into a single room has never been wise for numerous reasons; when adding on the stress of exams, the classroom is guaranteed to turn into an effective sauna. Keith broke into a sweat halfway through the test but didn't have time to take off his sweatshirt; the result of such haste culminates in his armpits and on his back, where his shirt clings to damp skin. He rubs his arms to stay off goosebumps, rummaging with one hand through his open backpack for his knit fingerless gloves.

"Especially for number six. Did you get any of that?" Shiro watches him put on his gloves. "The sketch was easy, but applying it.."

"It wasn't too difficult. You just had to think about it for a bit." In other words, panic for five seconds and then vomit out a half-answer. Keith shrugs. "I'm just glad to be done."

"Yeah," Shiro agrees fervently.

They make their way down the hillside, following the stream of students into the plaza that doubles as a main hub for two cafes and a bookstore. This early in the morning there aren't too many students out and about; aside from the regulars getting their caffeine fixes and a few frantic students buying exam sheets, the area is empty. Shiro stops where his car is parked, fingers playing with his keys absentmindedly. He turns to Keith.

"So.."

"So," Keith echoes.

They stare at each other for a moment.

It's been several days since Shiro left him with that kiss—several days that Keith's had time to sweat about it in his bedroom, pacing back and forth between his desk and the door. What are they supposed to  _ do  _ after that? Kiss  _ again?  _ Keith doesn’t know protocol for this kind of thing, doesn't know protocol for anything within the scope of romance. He’s a backyard dirt-digger, a nighttime insomniac with a penchant for chewing on pencils. He didn't actively try to  _ date  _ people.

Or at least he hadn't before Shiro.

Walking to lecture on Wednesday had been a mess. Between his sweaty hands (so sweaty that he had to pluck off his gloves) and the flopping in his gut, he was really wishing he subscribed to eating breakfast. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to act? Were things going to be different?

But if Shiro felt any of the same anxieties, he barely let them show. If it weren't for the soft dusting of pink across his nose and that lopsided smile, Keith might have thought it were any other morning. They sat together, took notes together. Everything was exactly the same as always.

And then, at the end of lecture when he was preparing himself to just come out and  _ ask _ , Shiro mumbled some excuse about an appointment and ran for the doors. They hadn't spoke since.

_ So much for studying together _ , Keith thought irritably. And then he remembered he didn't really like studying with others anyway, so what was the big deal?

Shiro. Shiro was the big deal.

Still, big, awkward tension or not, a midterm was a midterm. There wasn't a whole lot of space in Keith's head for other shit when he was trying to cram twenty amino acid codes into his brain at once. It wasn't that he forgot—just put it in the back of his brain to chew on later.

And then suddenly he was in for the midterm of his life, grabbing the bull by the horns. Multiple choice answers flying by, written diagrams and weird true/false questions careening through his brain at the speed of sound; if there was any shred of information left in Keith's head, it was going onto the paper faster than his hand could write.

Standing outside as the fog burns off, he has the distinct sensation of half his brain flapping in the wind like an old flag. He's not sure where it's going, only that it's ready to detach from the rest of his head and make its way to China. He's.. exhausted.

And now there's nowhere left to run. They're standing next to Shiro's car in the parking lot, and all they have is time.

Well, maybe not a  _ ton  _ of time. Keith's got another midterm for his ecology class next week. But there's the weekend, at least, to freak out about whatever they've got going on between them.

Shiro clears his throat. "I uh, I've got both of my other midterms next week—" 

"Oh, me too." Keith can feel himself going pink again under his collar.  _ Kill me.  _ "Uh. On Thursday. Back to back. You know how it is." 

"Yeah. So.. I'll just.." Shiro jerks his thumb behind him. "Go?"

"Okay." Keith watches his face fall infinitesimally—just enough to match the weird pang in his gut—and bites his lip. "I mean— wait."

Shiro's hand hovers above the unlock button on his keys. "Yes?"

"Are you.." Keith rocks back and forth on his heels. "What are you doing right now?"

"Right now?" Shiro blinks. "Uh.. Just was gonna go home. Have some cereal." He shrugs. "..Why? Was there something you wanted to do?"

_ Is there?  _ Keith wracks his brain frantically. He doesn't have anything else to do until two, when Pidge is done with her own midterm and they plan to play Mario Kart to drown their anxieties. He doesn't have anything on his schedule. Not even a trip for toilet paper.

An idea suddenly springs forward in his mind.

"Breakfast." He pauses, taking in Shiro's surprised expression. "Do you want to get breakfast?"

"But I thought you didn't—" Shiro pauses, flushing suddenly. "Oh. I mean.." He fiddles with his keys frantically, jingling them around on one finger like a nunchuck. "..Sure. Where?"

Where indeed. Are they supposed to go somewhere nice? Keith grimaces, looking down at his hashed ensemble of sweats and pajama shirt. He'd basically rolled out of bed for his midterm. And he didn't have that much cash..

"I-Hop," he decides, poking at a newly-discovered hole in his sweats. "Let's go to I-Hop."

There isn't much traffic leaving the university so early, and as a result, they make it to downtown in record time. I-Hop's parking lot is surprisingly empty for an early Friday morning; aside from a couple seagulls pecking at trash, they look like the only one's getting ready for pancakes.

The inside of I-Hop is even emptier. Aside from one disgruntled man hiding in a booth, they're the only ones in the whole restaurant. Their waitress takes in the whole picture they create: Keith, rumpled and short, his sweatpants threadbare enough to nearly be indecent, hair wildly sticking up from stressed hands running through it; Shiro, broad and immaculate, put together in his usual sweatshirt and clean jeans, the sleeves rolled up to bare strong, faintly scarred forearms. She smiles sweetly and ushers them to their booth.

Just because Keith doesn't eat breakfast as a habit doesn't mean he can't appreciate what's on the menu. He can feel himself beginning to salivate just at the sight of birthday cake pancakes—rainbow sprinkles and mountains of whipped cream  _ calling his name— _

"Are you actually going to get that?" Shiro raises his eyebrows, but his mouth quirks up at the corners. "Isn't that really sweet?"

"That's the point," Keith says, thumbing through the rest of the menu. Nothing looks as good as the fancy array of seasonal pancakes. Pumpkin pie? Butter pecan and caramel? He's dropped off the planet and fallen into sugary heaven. I-Hop was definitely a good call. "I want to send myself into diabetic shock as fast as possible." 

"Amazing." Shiro shakes his head. "Hey, if I get a plate of bacon will you share it with me?"

"Sure." Anything to get his money's worth. "As long as I get to put syrup on it."

When the waitress has left with their order, Shiro leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, propping his chin up in open palms. Keith smiles back shyly.

"So what's the plan for you this weekend?" Shiro's eyelashes gleam in the sunlight where they flutter against his cheeks. Keith finds himself captivated, watching them flick open and shut, long and gleaming. And then he realizes that Shiro's got one eyebrow raised.  _ Oh. _

He sits back, flushing at the prospect of being caught staring. "Nothing," he mutters. "Just. Studying and all." His eyes flit back up. "You?"

"Dealing with the rush." Shiro sighs. "We have to interview a couple guys this weekend. It's the usual procedures, but since I have to also get ahead for next weekend, it's.." He shrugs. "It is what it is. I'll figure it out." 

"Next weekend." Keith plays with the syrup dispensers, watching the amber liquids slosh inside. "What's next weekend?"

Shiro lifts his head from his palms. He coughs, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Keith counts the days in his head and wants to kick himself for his own ignorance.

"Right," he mutters. "I forgot. Sorry." 

"Nothing to apologize for." Shiro smiles crookedly. "It's just something to live with. I'm used to it." 

He tries to imagine what is must be like, constantly having a deadline hanging over your head every month, fighting to finish everything before it hits you. The inevitability of your own dehumanization lurking like a shadow behind every calendar date, every appointment. Living like that would be a torture Keith can barely wrap his head around, but to try juggling a rigorous lifestyle on top of it all?

"How do you do it?" He pokes his straw at the ice in his water. "The fraternity and stuff." 

Shiro's lips twist, and he brings his coffee up to his mouth for a long, slow sip. He places it gently back on the table.

"Carefully," he murmurs. "Very carefully. I've got a planner to keep track of everything. Got everything punched into my phone too, so I can stay on top of what's happening ahead of everyone else." 

"But why a fraternity?" Keith presses. "How do you get away with that?" He frowns. "I don't know anything about it, but I thought there was some sort of attendance." 

"It's important," Shiro agrees. "And if I could have it my way, I wouldn't have to juggle everything like this. But.." He half-shrugs. "When I rushed, I didn't plan on being.."

Keith's brow furrows. He stops playing with his ice and sits up. "Are you saying—" 

"Keith." Shiro's smiling, but why does he look so pained? "Did you really think I was born this way?"

They stare at each other for a long moment. Keith eyes trace the angles of his jaw, the tired lines around his eyes, the curvature of his full, soft mouth.

"I didn't think about it at all," he admits softly.  _ I was only thinking of you now. _

Shiro doesn't say anything for a while after that. The waitress brings their food with a broad smile, blind or willingly ignorant of the somber mood the table's taken. Keith cuts into his birthday cake pancakes but can't bring himself to bring the fork to his mouth. He cuts and cuts until all that's left are pieces.

"Maybe it's for the best," Shiro finally mumbles, poking at his omelette. "That you didn't know me before all this. I was really.. different." 

"Different." Keith cuts a sprinkle in half with a fork tine. "How?"

Shiro snorts. He plays with a shred of egg, scraping it around the circumference of his plate. His hands shake ever so gently where they're wrapped around his fork. 

"I was— Shallow. Maybe a little naive." He pauses thoughtfully, finally bringing the forkful to his mouth to eat. "Very naive."

Keith tries to imagine it and fails. "I can't see it," he admits. "You seem so.." Collected. Put-together.  _ Steady. _

"I was someone else," Shiro says. "It's a good thing nobody from my childhood followed me here. I don't think they'd recognize me now." His mouth twists into something like a smile, warped by bitterness and irony. "Even my brothers feel like they don't recognize me, sometimes. Every year I feel more and more different from who I was."

As someone who's spent so long in solitude, the idea of oncoming loneliness—unstoppable, ever-present, regardless of any attempts to pad oneself with connections and kindred hearts—sounds like a disconnected pain. Keith knows only a little fragment of that pain, but to feel it swell with every passing year is an unimaginable torment.

Shiro, bright and full of life; Shiro, the sun. There are so many satellites revolving him from where Keith stands—he can feel himself falling into such an orbit, careening with the powerful gravity he casts over everyone.

But even with all those satellites, suns look so lonely in the sky, don't they?

"Matt," he blurts. Shiro looks up from where he stares into his coffee mug. "You have Matt, don't you?" It's an empty comfort, one body in a sea of thousands, but the emptiness in Shiro's eyes threatens to spill and swallow the warmth in Keith's heart too. He can't just let it be. "Matt knows who you are, and he's still here."

"He doesn't have much of a choice." Shiro tips back his dregs and leaves his mug at the edge of the table. "He caught me at a bad time. If we had met under better circumstances, things might have been different."

There's an ocean of uncertainties in a statement like that. Questions bubble in the back of Keith's throat with stomach acid, burning to fly free.  _ How do you know each other? How did he find you? What's so bad that you both won't speak of it? _

But the guarded look in Shiro's eyes says that path too, is a dead end. He won't get anything out of prying unnecessarily, though the curiosity in him aches to rip the truth free. He settles for cramming the first forkful of pancake into his mouth and crunching around soft bread and sprinkles. The sugar that coats his tongue chases away some of the bitterness—some, in tiny increments.

"You have me," he murmurs softly. The waitress has come and gone, filling Shiro's mug for the second time, and their plates are halfway cleaned. He fiddles with leftover whipped cream, smearing it into an even plane on one corner of his plate. "I know what you are, and I'm still here."

Shiro pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes, gone tired and empty, slide over Keith carefully; neither of them look away, and before Keith's eyes, the pinch around his eyelids softens and the strained muscle in his jaw loosens, ever so gently.

"I don't know how," he says quietly. "But I'm glad you are."

Keith feels the blush blooming across his cheeks, betraying the flips his heart is currently making inside of his chest. He bites down hard on his fork, focusing on cleaning every stray crumb from the utensil, before scooping another mouthful and repeating the process again. Methodical madness to stay his frazzled nerves.

He waits until their meal is just about over to pipe up again.

"I'm glad too." He snaps out enough cash to cover his half of the bill, tucking it under the clip. "It's worth it all, I think."

And maybe such an assumption is too early. It might as well be, when there's so much about half of Shiro's life—his whole life, really—that Keith still doesn't know.

But it's true, even if only in that moment, for the way Shiro lights up from the inside. He glows warm like a shining star, and Keith basks in the heat.

The drive back to campus is all even lines and steady breaths timed to the radio. Keith runs his fingers over the bumps in Shiro's old seatbelts, marveling in the aged cracks that scatter the car's old interior. The music—some indie band Shiro likes, and Keith is painfully aware of his own limited exposure—crackles every time they hit a bump in the road, but Shiro sings steady. His voice cracks at notes just a smidgen too high, tripping just off-tune, exposing his personal lack of musicality. It doesn't matter; to Keith, the low husk of his voice is a song all on its own.

They park at the base of Keith's college, stalling below a large, gnarled oak tree. No students are visible from where they sit—the magical time period between the beginning and end of a lecture, before the lunch crowd can fully get going.

Keith slouches back into his chair. He's grown so comfortable in this car in the span of a few minutes, he should really be alarmed, but all he can feel is an even serenity, tinged in the lingering traces of Shiro's sorrow. The revelation of his own desire, pure and whole in spite of whatever ugliness Shiro bears in his skin, fills him with vigor so concentrated that it doubles as both a sedative for anxieties and an impetus for thoughtless bravery.

"Next weekend." He licks his lips and half-turns in his seat to face Shiro. "I want to be there."

"Keith." The way Shiro frowns, eyes widening in something akin to horror, only confirms the worry he harbors for the other man's wellbeing. "Are you sure? I don't want to—" He hesitates. "It's dangerous."

"Matt will be there, won't he?" Keith asks. He knows by the way Shiro's frown deepens that he's right. "I'll be with him. And I think I can handle myself." He snorts in spite of himself. "Your moth side doesn't seem keen on killing me or anything."

"It's not something to joke about," Shiro chastises, but he doesn't disagree. He taps one finger against the steering wheel, eyes seeing something Keith can't. "Mistakes could be made. It's very difficult to reason with an animal."

"Then teach me how." Keith unbuckles himself, leaning in further. "Teach me how to read you."  _ Teach me how to understand. _

A second finger joins the first's drum session. Shiro chews his bottom lip until it pops free, cherry-red and swollen. His eyes flicker from the gnarled oak to Keith's expectant face and back again.

"Sunday evening," he finally says. "I can pick you up Sunday evening. Does that work?"

"Yes," Keith breathes. "Of course." His eyes flit from the soft glisten of Shiro's lips to his eyes, trained squarely on the steering wheel. "You won't regret it," he promises. "We'll be careful."

_ I trust you. Do you trust me? _

"Yeah," Shiro agrees softly. He meets Keith's gaze with tender eyes, one hand unconsciously reaching to muss Keith's hair where it sticks up oddly. "We'll.. work it out."

The way his eyes trace over Keith's features before resting on his lips excites the nervous fire in his stomach to burn ever higher. Riding high on something akin to adrenaline, he leans in presses his mouth carefully to the tiny scar across Shiro's right cheek, just above the sharp angle of his cheekbone. The skin there is soft and incredibly warm under his touch—an alien sensation to one who's touched others so little, but something he can tell he has the capacity to love. 

When he pulls away, the heat in Shiro's cheeks must match his own. Keith can't help the soft quirk of his own lips, thrilled in his own daring even as his nerves spark and pop inside his flesh. "I'll see you then," he murmurs. "Text me, okay?"

"Okay," Shiro agrees weakly. He looks like he might faint right on top of the steering wheel, or fly away like a balloon without its tie.

"Sure." Keith smiles, wholly pleased with himself. 

_ Things are going to be.. okay. _

.

Sunday rolls around at a molasses-like pace, steady in the midst of midterm season. Keith's eyes burn from staring holes into his textbooks and he's pretty sure he's going to wake with a crick in his neck for the next two weeks; between long sessions of one position, he drifts around the apartment like an old ghost, pale and rumpled. Neither Lance nor Hunk sport any semblance of cheer either, eyebags too prominent to spell out anything but internal distress.

Typical casualties of the quarter.

They've settled into a comfortable rhythm, what with Hunk making tea first thing in the morning for them all before claiming the barstool-and-counter space for his laptop and notes. Lance eventually drifts in to curl up on the couch in a blue snuggie; his books surround him, swamping across the cushions onto the coffee table and floor. Then, when Keith eventually rolls out of bed, he takes up position at the kitchen table. They take turns refilling the electric kettle, partitioning out fresh cups of stolen dining hall tea between measly lunch breaks, until dinner rolls around to rip them from their warm living room and make the nightly dining hall trek.

Keith's just accepted his fourth cup of orange spice for the day (just one too many, if the rising acid reflux in his throat is anything to go by) when a soft tapping rings through the air. Hunk freezes, kettle still in hand. Lance's pencil stops its scratching across a page.

When Keith chances a glance upwards all he can see is the perfect  _ o  _ of Hunk's lips. He looks ready to break out into a sweat.

"Hunk?" He swivels around in his seat to look out the glass. "What's— oh."

He'd almost forgotten.  _ Shiro. _

"Do you want me to get that?" Hunk chokes, shuffling away with the kettle. "Oh God, I should have made more water for tea—"

"You didn't tell us a  _ boy  _ was coming over," Lance gripes, setting aside his textbooks. The way his gaze slides over the undeniable bulk of Shiro's frame riles something ugly in Keith's gut. "I would have worn a better shirt."

"It doesn't matter," Keith mutters, feeling his own face go hot. "We're just leaving." He holds one finger out to Shiro, mouthing  _ wait _ , and flees for his bedroom to grab a better jacket.

When he shuffles back in, feet barely crammed into an old pair of sneakers, sudden nerves waylay dismay; Hunk, as the best host out of their three, has opened the sliding glass to let Shiro step inside. Keith can see how pink Shirt is under the artificial light, the soft stubble rising on his cheeks. He's just as rumpled and tired as Keith feels.  _ The effects of the new moon? _

"I hope your midterms go well," he says, smiling evenly at Hunk and Lance. "We all need all the luck we can get, right?"

"It's too bad you can't stay," Lance simpers. He flops back onto the couch, tucking himself into his snuggie better. "Keith barely tells us  _ anything  _ about you guys."

"That's because there's nothing to say," he snaps, tossing a loose cushion at his roommate's head. Lance squawks and fumbles blindly, nearly sliding onto the floor. "We're leaving now."

"Come back safe," Hunk smiles, steeping his sixth cup. "We'll be up." 

They wander down the hillside towards the parking lot, silence broken only by the soft puffs of their breathing. The closer they get to the end of the month, the colder the days have become; it's barely sundown and Keith can see his breath every time he exhales, clouding around his cheeks, kissing the exposed skin there before trailing away.

"Nothing to say, huh?" Shiro teases. He tilts his head back and grins, teeth glinting by the lamplight. Keith feels his face flush hot.

"I just wanted them off my back," he mutters, jamming his hands into his pockets.  _ Fuck.  _ He forgot to trade out his knit gloves for a sturdier pair. At least it matches the rest of him swaddled in cotton. "It doesn't mean anything." 

"Sure." Shiro spins his keys around one finger and smiles wider. "Whatever you say." 

The drive back into town is peaceful, lit only by passing stoplights and other cars. Keith revels in the modern marvel that is heated seats, gladly sinking into soft pleather, going so far as to jam his hands under his butt.  _ Ahh. Defrosting. _

"I figured we'd just head back to my place," Shiro says, making a right turn. "The other guys are studying at the library or working. It'll be just us—nobody to listen in." He chuckles. "And all the free food is there."  _ Just us.  _ Keith bites his lip and tries to quell the arcing leaps his stomach's attempting. It isn't working. "Okay."

The route's familiarity harkens back to a long bus ride after dark, Pidge's small body tucked into his own. Keith runs his tongue over his teeth as they pass the bus stops and drive further into the dark, passing from downtown's hub into a quiet residential area. Old bungalows and rumpled grassy yards begin to flourish, decorated vividly in cobwebs and ridiculous ghost pennants just in time for Halloween.

They park in an extended driveway and shuffle out from behind a jumble of locked up bikes. The house's windows, dark enough to blend into the expanding quiet of the night, betray nothing about its usual inhabitants. Keith eyes a doorstep he's stood upon once before and tastes the acrid memories of bile and misunderstandings, souring what trace thoughts are left from before.

"You've only been here for the party, right?" Shiro asks, reading his mind. They toe off their sneakers just inside the door and pad further into darkness Keith remembers in half-dreams, shuffling through an entryway into a living room that trails off through a hall and up into a second floor.

"Yeah," Keith mutters, sidestepping a stray jumble of shoes.

Shiro flicks on the kitchen's single-bulb,casting wide shadows over a sink loaded with grubby dishes and a table scattered with crumbs and remnants of someone else's lunch. He pulls out two chipped mugs from a dish drainer and fiddles with a box tucked beside the fridge.

"You like orange spice, right?" He stands, two teabags in hand. "We don't have any, but there's chamomile citrus. I don't know enough to say if they're the same, but—"

"It's fine." Keith threads his fingers together, hovering just past Shiro's line of movement. Dimly lit and utterly empty, the kitchen throws vibes that remind him of his own kitchen late in the night, long after everybody’s gone to bed and left the stove light to glow in the dark. "I'll drink anything."

The mugs spin slowly inside the microwave, water sloshing where the revolving pan stutters in its old age; Keith watches as water bubbles and condensation pads the inside window, emanating a gentle heat that probably isn't clinically safe. He wraps his jacket sleeves over his palms to pull them out when a pitiful ding creaks through the air.

"Who lives here with you?" Keith asks, trailing Shiro's bulk back into the house's mass. They shuffle through the living room, down that hallway Keith remembers so bitterly, turning the corner to meet several more doors. Shiro stops at the last one, balancing a box of Cheez-Its between his thighs to focus on un-jamming the door hinges. The door swings back on screaming bolts and Keith is hit with a sudden, concentrated wave of what he's come to know as  _ Shiro. _

Nerves ride unbidden but they aren't fast enough to keep pace with Shiro's movements; carving through the utter blackness is a bedside lamp, dangling switch bouncing around to smack against bulb and shade. Shiro tosses the Cheez-Its across a navy bedspread, abandoning them to fiddle with something in the closet. Keith can't bring himself to perch on the mattress—not that there would be enough space, it seems, since Shiro somehow crams himself onto a long twin—and settles for leaning against a black Ikea desk.

Tea threatens to slip down his trachea when Shiro suddenly rips his jacket and shirt off in a single, fluid motion, exposing corded muscle and smooth skin beneath; he hacks against rising tears and forces his gaze to the floor.

_Sweet Jesus._ And he thought Shiro was beefy through his clothes. Up close and personal, Shiro looks jacked enough to stop a stray train-car a la Mr. Incredible, or at the very least balance four people on tight, defined back muscles. Keith tugs at his jacket sleeves, suddenly conscious of how his heart has decided to flee full-sprint for the door.

"Sorry," Shiro says, half-turning enough to give Keith an eyeful of firm, defined abdominals.  _ God, are you watching? Please don't let me pass out here.  _ "My sweater was a little warm."

"It's fine," Keith squeaks, feeling himself going red. "Just—fine." He trains his focus on decorating aspects to stave off an impending hot flash, letting Shiro's movements blur into peripheral. 

Between creamy, standard-painted walls, more black ikea furniture, and a large, black fluffy rug covering even floorboards, the room sports a surprising utilitarian feel; though there are a few pinned photos at Shiro's desk, the walls are almost completely blank, as is the ceiling. Keith shuffles closer to the desk to get a better look at what's there.

Most of the photos taped to the desk are landscapes, snapshots depicting open greenery and redwoods that Keith recognizes from hotspots around campus. There's even one photo of the clearing from a week and a half (God,  _ only  _ a week and a half) before, illuminated in moonlight as it had been in person. 

Only two photos have people in them, and of those, only one with Shiro himself. One is a group photo of what Keith guesses to be him and all of his frat brothers; with white teeth and square shoulders, they all shadow each other's visages to some degree, crammed into an unfamiliar living room. Shiro perches near the center with a beer in his hand, flannel rumpled and mouth crooked the way Keith likes best.

The other photo, though..

It's candid in a matter that betrays serenity Keith's never known, framing a messy kitchen counter and floured, gnarled hands. In the corner of the frame a strawberry apron makes up most of an old woman with silvery hair and honest, smiling eyes; the man who stoops at her side, weathered lips curving into a real, toothy grin, couldn't be anyone but her husband. They look genuinely happy, sunlight beaming from somewhere out of frame to illuminate old skin and soft, yeasty dough between their palms.

"My grandparents," Shiro murmurs. He's fully changed now, seated on the bed with the crackers in his lap. He pats the space next to him and Keith, distracted by those sweet smiles, obeys without a second thought. "They always loved cooking together—insisted on stuffing me every time I visited." His mouth quirks up on one side. "Too bad I didn't get the cooking gene."

Keith steals a cracker from the box and tactfully sidesteps the absence of Shiro's parents from this equation. "Me neither," he says. "But that's what microwaves are for."

"I can hear my grandma yelling at me from heaven," Shiro laughs, jamming more crackers in his mouth. He flops back onto the mattress and sighs, long and slow. "Sometimes I wonder what she'd say about all this."

Keith shuffles back to lean against the wall, lost in thought. There's a clear divide between the  _ before  _ and the  _ after _ —a solid series of events preceded by normalcy and followed by Shiro's life turning inside out, parodying what a normal college student's should be. It's clear that his family has no idea, but that doesn't mean much when, as far as Keith can tell, only Matt is in the know.

"When did you.." He pauses, plucking at a stray thread in Shiro's comforter. "Change?"

Shiro's smile wipes clean from his face. He stares at the ceiling and chews quietly for a couple of seconds, hands moving mechanically from the box to his mouth, and then, in the soft darkness, begins to speak.

"Just a month into my first quarter." He pauses. "I was eighteen."

_ Two years.  _ Two years of balancing work and homework with the labors of transformation. Keith's lips part, but he finds there's nothing he can say that would heal any of the wound Shiro's steadily exposing. He closes his mouth.

"It was almost Halloween," Shiro continues, eyes slipping closed. "I remember being so hassled over midterms—all I wanted was to go for a run in the woods. Just to get away for a little while." He sighs, breath shaking. "It was only supposed to be for a half hour. And then.."

_ And then.  _ Keith wipes coarse salt onto his pants and steadies his own shallow breathing. "You changed, just like that?"

Shiro slides the Cheez-Its box off his lap, letting crackers spill onto the sheets between them. He sits up slowly, dark eyes seeking out Keith's own, shoulders hunching in as if to protect himself from a memory Keith can't see.

"I don't remember," he confesses, voice paper-thin. "I went out for a run, and I don't remember what happens after. Everything is.. in pieces."

Shiro blinks, and his eyes gleam too-bright, glassy.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's better that I don't know. It's too late to change what's already passed." His mouth thins. "I am what I am, now."

Keith licks against crushed crackers caked to his teeth, tasting remnants of cheddar and salt. He knows sorry isn't enough, could never be enough, and so he says nothing at all.

"I guess this new moon makes two years," Shiro continues. "I've got the routine down pat, at least." He cocks his head, staring at the scattered crackers. "It's just me, the moon, and a week of midnight shifts."

The old crone speaks from somewhere in Keith's memory.  _ He's tied to the moon; it's his guiding light. _

Things are beginning to become clearer.

"You're a weremoth," he says quietly. "That's how you get away with it." 

"Up with the moon, down with the sun." Shiro nods. "Once it's evening I make for the woods. Nobody bothers me up there, where Matt lives. He's careful to keep random hikers away."

"So he.. protects you? From other people?" Keith licks his lips. "I thought it was the other way around."

Shiro shrugs. "Who can say? It's in everyone's interests, I think. I've heard that cryptids are.. unpredictable."

_ So it's true.  _ "You really don't have any memory of being Mothman," Keith says. 

"Bits and pieces." Shiro shakes his head. "I imagine it's the same way being me looks to Mothman. There are sensations we share—feelings, I guess." His mouth lifts at one corner. "Affections."

"You left gifts at my bedroom window while I was sleeping," Keith deadpans, "and now you want to be shy about it?"

"I don't have any control over what he does," Shiro snickers, pressing his fingers over his lips. "Otherwise I'd stop it. Sorry you had to live with that."

"I thought you were going to break into my house and kill me! It was a serious issue!" Keith can feel his own laughter bubbling in his chest, fizzing like a shaken liter of Coke. All of this is so, so—

"Ridiculous," he mumbles, sliding sideways to flop on the bed. He drags two crackers to his mouth and crunches them down. "This is ridiculous."

"Yeah," Shiro sighs. He pops a handful of Cheez-Its into his mouth at once and chews noisily. "I know."

Planned specifics are difficult to make without Matt but there's no way around it; after harrowing Pidge for extra information, all Keith can glean is that her brother's spite for capitalism and the government's oppression is enough to keep him up in the woods until it's time to buy groceries. Hypocritical? Maybe. Relatable? Absolutely.

Apparently, though Shiro and Mothman connect only on base emotions, they both recognize the importance of a designated landing spot. The clearing Keith dropped into during the full moon is apparently a regular visit; it's where Shiro prefers to change between forms, far away from prying eyes and night foragers. Keith can be there to see him change back and forth, but whatever happens in between is out of their hands.

"From what Matt tells me, I just go fly off for a couple hours," Shiro says. "I don't know where or why, but I haven't been seen yet, so it can't be too bad." He reaches for another Cheez-It and frowns at the empty bag. "He theorizes I'm off being moth-like. Pollinating plants, or something."

_ A cryptid who doesn't know how to be a cryptid. _ Keith smiles at the thought. "Could I try to come along? See what it's all about?"

Shiro frowns. "I don't know. It's up to  _ him _ ." He pauses, turning on his side to look at Keith.

The bed barely fits their combined mass, with Keith's legs dangling off the end and Shiro's body hedging him close to the wall. They're close enough that Keith can taste his exhales, count the wild hairs that stick up from Shiro's hairline. He hadn't even noticed when they'd gotten so close, but he doesn't dare move away now.

"We'll see," he says quietly, resting his cheek on the back of his hands. Shiro's eyes flicker up to meet his, lips curving gently at whatever he sees there.

"We will," he agrees. "We'll make it through, one way or another—together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would think that without the structure of school I'd have more time to write, but now I wake up closer to noon and waste too much time surfing the Web... 
> 
> Next chapter: a visit from everyone's favorite idiot bugman. Bring out the glittery buttons! 
> 
> drop a comment or visit me on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com)


	9. Rise of the Living Moth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, we're roughly halfway through what I have planned for this story. This chapter marks the last point where things are slow and easily managed for Keith; after this point the plot will really be picking up. Shit's about to get hectic.  
> But for now, some soft, fluffy moth action.

**Pidgey: we still on for our spookfest?? i have a need to rot out all my teeth with reeses**

**Chief Keef: only if we also get a pound of peach rings**

**Pidgey: done. we can bus to CVS and stuff sat night**

**Chief Keef: sounds good to me**

**Pidgey: u wanna invite Shiro??**

**Chief Keef: would if i could. its moth hour**

**Pidgey: tragic.... we could always invite ur housemates tho, if u wanna..**

"Keith?" Hunk stares down at his pot of bubbling tomato sauce, spoon hovering over the wriggling mass. "Come and try this for me? It's missing something but I don't know what."  
"I'm not the one to ask," he reminds him, but obliges anyway; free food is free food, and he's going to go nuts if he stares at this study guide for too long. "It's just regular sauce, right?"

"For gnocchi." Hunk plants one hand on his hip and passes the wooden spoon. "It's supposed to be my mother's recipe, but.." He purses his lips and nudges a written recipe on the counter. "I feel like it could do with an adjustment. Salt? Extra oregano?"

Keith blows on the spoon's end and licks it tentatively. The primary sensation of _heat_ gives way to flavor after a moment of swilling around in his mouth; he licks the backs of his teeth and marvels at the explosion of tomato and spices flooding his tongue. How does Hunk manage to make something so basic taste _so good?_

"More garlic salt?" He suggests. It's a shot in the dark, but based on the way Hunk nods thoughtfully, rummaging through the open canisters of spices with unmatched fervor, means he must have said something within reason.

"On it," he says, nodding. "Thanks."

Tuesday evening stands irregularly quiet thanks to Lance's sudden study break to go work out. His absence marks a profound silence over the living room (one usually broken by his lofty sighs and long-suffering groans, complete with snuggie flapping) that Keith finds almost unsettling after becoming so used to the constant, low hum of noise that is Lance.

It isn't that Keith _isn't_ grateful for the silence—with Lance being his roommate, he almost sees too much of the guy—but that he rarely gets free time alone with Hunk. The two boys are nearly inseparable unless divided by classes or early-morning sleep schedules; Keith would be jealous, maybe, if he didn't have Pidge in every available time slot of the week.

He chews on the nubby eraser of his pencil and peeks up from his phone screen. Hunk's almost done making sauce, it seems; in a moment the food will be ready and he'll disappear into his bedroom to eat in silence, maybe take a short break. If Keith is going to say anything it's now or never.

"Hey." He taps his pencil against his paper. "Hunk."

"Yeah? What's up?"

"What are you guys doing for Halloween?"

Hunk looks up from the stove with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "..Not sure yet. Why?"

"Just wondering." He pauses, examining the wet spot his eraser makes against the page. "Pidge and I started this tradition last year. Um. Eating candy and stuff?"

"Yeah?" He's not turning around completely, but Keith can see how Hunk's posture angles curiously, head cocked to listen to what he has to say. "That's nice."  
  
"Yeah," Keith echoes, feeling foolish. They both know what he wants to say, but how is supposed to say it? "Maybe.. If you and Lance don't have anything planned—"  
  
_Bang._

Hunk swings around and splatters sauce everywhere on the floor. They stare at each other.

_Bang. Bang. Ban—_

"Uh," Hunk says, eyes moving to stare past Keith's shoulder. "Do you want to open the balcony?"

Lance cuts a comical figure. Bent perfectly in half, with an electric blue headband and matching armbands that echo exercise DVD's from the nineties, he looks as if a strong wind could knock him into the next century. As they watch, he fumbles up to the sliding glass and smacks his hands onto it, sweaty palms slipping over the glass to make an awful squealing noise. His mouth pops open to mime unintelligible words.

Wordlessly, Keith gets up and cracks open the glass.

"Let me in," Lance pants, rising halfway from his knees. Up close he emanates an astounding sweaty smell—like Shiro after he works out and comes to class, Keith thinks, but not as pleasant—and glistens like a glazed donut. Keith does his best to breathe out of his mouth.

"What's wrong?" Hunk asks, shuffling forward. He hands Lance a glass of water and they both watch him chug it down while making the noisiest slurping noises.

After a moment Lance slaps the glass on the counter and looks at them both, triumph shining through his exhaustion.

"I've got some big news," he announces.

"We can tell," Keith says. "Did you run the whole way here from the gym?"

"That's unimportant. What is important though—" He grabs a second glass from Hunk and chugs it with gusto. "What is important, is that I saw somebody while I was there."  
  
"There are a lot of somebodies at the gym," Hunk remarks, frowning. "Was it somebody important? The provost, maybe? Your math TA? You did say you were thinking of going to office hours—"  
  
"No, no." Lance waves his hand about. "I saw _Allura._ "

They both look at Lance. He looks back at them, eyebrows raised impatiently.

"I don't see—"  
  
"Allura, _Allura_ , c'mon Hunk, think about this, she throws a huge party every year off campus, and—"  
  
"She does? I wasn't aware."  
  
"Yes, well." He bobs up and down on his heels, free hand flapping at his side as if it might pop off at the wrist. "She does. And I got to talking with her at the treadmills, and mentioned how I was your roommate, Keith, and she lit up right away—"  
  
"You used me as a conversation starter?" He crosses his arms, unimpressed. "I don't want to be dragged into whatever you two have going on—"  
  
_"Oh my God,_ I'm not going into that, listen to me," he snaps, hand windmilling faster. He looks almost ready to break out into another sweat right there on the kitchen tile. "Anyway, we were talking and she was so excited at the idea of you and Shiro at the party this weekend and when I brought up how we didn't have any plans she may have.. I don't know, invited me and Hunk as well?"

 _The party this weekend._ But this weekend was a new moon, there was no way Keith or Shiro were ever going to make an appearance! Keith chews his bottom lip, taking in Lance's sparkling expression and the sudden, hopeful doubt in Hunk's eyes. _There’s nothing to be done about it but lie._

"So?" Lance says. "What do you say? The four of us this weekend? She said Pidge could come too, by the way."

"A party," Hunk breathes. "Like, a real one? With costumes and Halloween cookies with the cute sprinkles on them? Paper-mache decorations?"

Keith sinks slowly onto a barstool, eyes pinned to the carpet. He’s never been a good liar—never enjoyed the idea of it, even if he _was_ good.

"Sure, probably," Lance says, eyes flashing. "Oh, man. Think of the costumes. We totally have to match, but— It's such last minute notice, Hunk, do you think—"

"I can't."

The clock ticks over to the new hour. Lance's hand drops to his side. Keith stares at his arm hairs, focusing on the tiny points where the pores open up; his stomach clenches tight around acid and too much tea, bitter and anxious at the cusp of an enormous truth that presses at his flesh to rip from the inside out.

"You can't," Lance echoes. His brows draw together. "Why?"

He swallows around the truth and pinches his lips tight to seal it in his stomach. "I just can't. I'm.. busy." He focuses past Lance's confused expression, eyeing the shifting redwoods outside. "With stuff."

"On Halloween?" Lance plants his hands on his hips. "Well, can you at least show early? I already told Allura you were gonna come. It'll look bad if you don't."

"Should have thought of that before making plans." Keith slides off the stool and fixes his roommate with a glare. "Show up by yourselves, I don’t care. Nobody's stopping you."

Lance’s lip curls. "Is that a challenge?"

"Does it sound like one?"

"You bet it does, _mullet—_ "

"Guys." Hunk shoves his way between them, one hand on Lance's shoulder. He squints at either of them in turn, mouth turning down, eyes pinched. "This isn't a big deal, really—"

"Isn't it, though?" Keith's stomach squeezes tighter, concentrating venom onto his tongue to spill outward, splattering over everything. "Since Lance is so _desperate_ to horn his way into shit—"

"Desperate?" Lance's mouth opens in a silent snarl. "Better than having a giant ice pick shoved up my—"

" _Alright._ " Hunk's mouth is a flat line. "Guys."

Keith doesn't expect Lance to understand—he's nosy and noisy, obnoxious when it's least convenient (in Keith's opinion), and always vying for attention. Still, even with the utter contrast in their personalities, their attitudes towards people, and even their tea preferences, he's appreciated the distance kept between each other. A quiet reliance in the dark of their room that didn't bleed into whatever shit Lance steeped himself in during the day. Clean, convenient companionship.

And yet, no matter the distance Keith’s tried to keep, lying leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Lance shouldn’t mean enough to him to match the onsetting guilt that lacquers his bones, but he _does._

It’s uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Keith signed up for a roommate but it was looking more and more like he was getting.. what, a little brother? An extra leg?

 _I don't want it._ He glares at Lance over Hunk's shoulder. Being roommates was all fine and dandy, but guys like Lance didn’t fit with guys like him— _especially_ guys like him with secrets like his. It just wouldn't work.

"I'm going to study in my room," he snaps, shoving past Hunk to grab his textbook. "Try not to make too much noise."

He slams the door hard enough to rattle his own bones.

**Chief Keef: it wont work. its just us**

**Pidgey: if ur sure..**

.

The night before the new moon, Keith dreams in white.

The field he flits through is unfamiliar. Under a silver, swollen moon, lilies burst like tiny starlight pinpricks to bare golden pollen to the night air. The trees are just different enough to be noticeable—low hanging branches, gnarled and evergreen, poking out to grasp at the moonlight with hungry fingers. He looks up and sees the stars ever so slightly off-kilter, shifted a centimeter south of the skies he's used to.

**_You._ **

He crushes blooms underfoot when he turns. There's nothing in the field but lilies and moonshine, spinning silver thread to cast nets over everything.

But there, in the back of his head, a black eye opens.

 **_You_ ** _._ **_You yOU YOU—_ **

He doesn't fear the buzzing, doesn't shy away from the oncoming wave of paralysis, doesn't grit his teeth when the numbness seizes his muscles, clinging to his skin like a wet blanket, smothering and grasping tight. The cold trail of invisible fingers is not unlike that first encounter—hands clenching around his rib cage, squeezing tight enough to shorten breath and slow heartbeats.

**_You YOUYouOOuU_ **

_I'm here,_ he thinks, trembling. _I'm here._

A great pair of white wings burst up from the lilies, flitting frantically. Petals shred from stems to whistle into the open air like confetti, whipping in snowstorm parody, blinding him as he falls to his knees.

He closes his eyes but that eye widens, widens, wider. Black pupil expanding to swallow all light, grasping at moonlight, sunlight, consuming, _eating—_

Heartbeat slows. Slows. Slower. Too slow.

Cold. Dark. Quiet.

_Am I dying?_

**_YOUYOUYOU_ **

He sucks in one last shuddering breath, tastes the sourness of his own bitter realization, savors it as the world plunges into darkness, swarmed in black, buzzing, drilling into his skull.

_You aren't Shiro._

.

Back-to-back classes are mixed blessings. On one hand you have the guarantee of being done—the surety that once you jump that day's hurdle, everything else will fall into place behind it as quiet hours of studying, a lunch break here or there, a quiet evening running errands in and around downtown. You sit in class for three hours and then you're free.

On the other hand, however, is the bane to every student's existence: _back-to-back midterms._

 _I'm dying,_ Keith thinks, jogging uphill. If he keeps up his pace he might make it in time to get a corner seat (might being the key word here). Unfortunately, keeping pace jogging up a hillside with a two-ton backpack is easier said than done. _I'm actually dying._

At best, the allotted fifteen minutes between math and ecology is a nice change-up from sitting still; shins burn, backs heat under backpacks, but the air in his lungs is welcome. At worst, he's a sweaty mess with negative time on his hands.

This is one of those worst times.

He busts into the lecture hall with three minutes to spare. The TA's are already passing out exams, and the noise of shuffling paper and low, frantic murmurs buzzes over his head. From the bottom of the lecture hall he can't properly see where seats are open but it doesn't look good.

"Fuck," he hisses, jogging up the side stairs. The sweat on his back continues to coalesce, melding cotton to skin in uneven patches; if it weren't for the cold air leaking through open doors he's pretty sure he'd be a gross, wet ball.

There's one spot available in the middle of a row (of course) and he speeds for it, smacking his backpack into people's desks and bumping legs the whole way. And _then,_ upon sitting down and ripping out his pencils, his study sheet, his _calculator—_

"Fuck." He jams his finger over the power button. Nothing. " _Fuck_ —"

"The exam will be starting in one minute," one of the TA's chirps from the front of the room. "If you don't have an exam, please raise your hand now."

 _This can't be happening to me._ Keith raises his hand. _Holy shit._

"My calculator's dead," he tells the TA two minutes into the exam. The _scritch-scratch_ of other student's frantically writing underscores the clock ticking his time away. "Is there any way for me to get a replacement?"

"Only at the library," she replies. She purses her lips, looking him up and down. "You don't have any extra batteries on you?"

"No." _Does anybody actually do that?_

"Too bad. Library then, unless you want to take the test without one." She grimaces. "You've got fifty-five minutes. I'd run if I were you."

What else is he supposed to do? A midterm is a one shot, one chance issue. There isn't time to argue with a TA,or fuck around and guess at five-step math problems with mental math. He makes the run (even more uphill) to the library, panting the whole way, wishing for death to jump down from the clouds and body-slam him into another realm.

 

**Pidgey: soooo howd it go**

**Chief Keef: i dont want to talk about it**

 

At the very least, the uphill hike towards the clearing is peaceful; the amount of wandering students dwindles to a healthy, lonely zero once he steps past the marked boundary of university property, pushing his way into the unknown northeast.

Shortening sunsets lend no stray light to his trek. Even though his cell phone says it's only around five-thirty, the sky's descent into violet and navy passes at an alarming speed, overtaking soft blue shades in violent, silent streams. The air, warm from late afternoon sun, cools until he can see it clouding around his face. Shadows lengthen until they bleed into a singular mass, spreading through undergrowth and splashing over his legs.

And then, in the absence of the sun, a black moon begins to rise.

He's the last one to make it to the clearing. Shiro stands in the open space with his back to Keith, looking up at the twinkling stars. Beside him, Matt turns and offers a congenial wave.

"Glad you could make it." His voice carries soft and serene across the unnatural quiet of the night. "We're at T minus ten minutes, I would say." He checks an analog watch on his wrist and nods. "Nine minutes to six-thirty."

Shiro's breath mists around them in a grey, swirling cloud. When he turns to finally face Keith, the light in his eyes underlines every fear he doesn't place into words.

Keith's not great at reading body signals, but he recognizes the signs from a lifetime of seeing them in himself. _Regret. Apprehension._

_Hope._

"Everything's going to go fine," he tells him. The rise and fall of Shiro's chest synchronizes with how fast his own heart thuds against his ribs, and he reaches forward to squeeze one of Shiro's biceps tightly. "There's nothing to worry about."

"Easy for you to say," Shiro says. He chuckles weakly, but doesn't shy from Keith's grip; if anything he leans into it, savoring the warmth of familiar touch before..

"T minus five," Matt murmurs. "We'd better stand back before things get ugly—a precaution."  
  
"I know." Keith rubs his palm up Shiro's arm, fingers trailing over the exposed skin of his neck. He stares into those dark eyes and feels a _pull_ , not unlike the end of their first date.

Shiro's eyes trail over the angles of his cheeks, his nose, his lips. He smiles, tired, and stands back, ripping away from Keith's grasp.

Time's suspension between the first and second footfall is a familiar ghost lurking behind Keith's shoulder. He stands at the edge of the clearing and finds himself remembering a glimpse of his own childhood, trace sensations of another time and place he can no longer return to.

Breaking his aunt's favorite teacup. Leaving the shards together in the back of the cupboard, _knowing_ it wouldn't be enough to curb her searching hands and wandering eye. It was her favorite teacup after all; he watched her drink out of it every afternoon at four, steeping black tea and lemon tea and rose tea until he knew the different aromas by random whiffs.

He hid in the lowest shelf of their living room bookcase, tucking himself behind a fat, dusty set of encyclopedias, and counted to ten. He remembers hearing her shoes click into the kitchen for a cup of tea, and for every second that passed, he’d found himself wishing he could throw himself over the edge, cutting himself on that inevitable, passing blade of punishment faster than it could catch him unawares.

_Five._

A cloud passes over the new moon, throwing away their weak moonlight in favor of utter abyssal darkness. Keith blinks and blinks but sees no better; beside him, Matt sucks in a low, steady breath.

_Four._

The redwoods groan and hustle in the wind, arms knocking into one another as they clamor to ogle Shiro's lone form. He stands, shoulders hunched, and does not look back at either of his friends. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

_Three._

Keith curls his own fingers into his palms and finds them trembling. He's not one to shake for anything or anyone—never has been prone to small acts of anxiety aside from his own racing heart. When he licks his lips all he can taste is his own sweat and traces of dry bark dust. He wills himself to be stone. _He's_ not the one transforming.

_Two._

There are so many things that could go wrong, he realizes belatedly. They never discussed what to do if the shift goes badly, if Mothman doesn't want visitors, if it's hard to turn back. Is it hard to turn back? He never asked, and now it's too late.

_One._

_There's nothing we can do now,_ he thinks grimly.

Beneath the shuttered eye of the new moon, Shiro's breath labors into small, strangled wheezes. He tumbles to his knees in near silence, a puppet with its strings cut, and shudders under invisible weights and shadows only he can see.

And he _changes._

The second time is just as painful, just as ugly, just as heart-wrenching as the first. The familiarity of the moment should alarm Keith, for he's grown used to seeing that terror behind his eyes when he worries—he's relived the shift, the agony Shiro undoubtedly shoulders, over and over until he's nauseous. Seeing it in person may shred his heart to pieces, but it isn't unfamiliar.

When passing clouds have cleared the new moon, wiping it clean to bear its gaze down on them, one less man stands among the clearing's dust and dirt. In his place is a winged shadow of the night, eyes blazing red to match a full moon's glow.

"Mothman," Keith breathes. Matt makes no movements beside him.

Standing still from a healthy distance, Mothman's form paints a clearer picture than anything in Keith's dreams. The new moon's paltry light wrests iridescent glimmers from his newly-formed blue thorax, turning hard exoskeleton into something wet, jewel-like. His arms are thorny and hard, yes, but the strength and shape echoes Shiro's own built nature. As they watch, Mothman flexes and stretches out each arm, one at a time.

Mothman may be less than human but his perception proceeds unmatched. The way those glassy black eyes trail over the two of them highlights his awareness even in the relaxed stance he chooses to have. Wings flex over the ground, stretching out and stirring the dirt gently where white tips trail. They're close enough that Keith can see the veins threading through each wing, fanning out from the shoulder joint in an elaborate, leaflike lattice; the hairs standing up on each wing riffle gently in the breeze, airing out wet matter like a damp towel hung to dry.

He bobs once, twice. He is awake.

"Good morning," Matt says. His shoulders remain tense, but he jams his fingers into his pockets and kicks at the soil. "Er, evening. Night?"

Mothman bobs again. His red, fluffy head twitches back and forth, sizing them up like a passing pigeon. Keith picks at a loose thread in his pants and stares back.

"Go on," Matt mutters, nudging him. "Say something. Staring's kinda rude."

Keith glances at him. Matt nods encouragingly, taking a step back. He clears his throat.

"Hello.. Mothman." Black eyes stare unblinking. "Hasn’t been a while, right?” He fumbles at his pockets, searching for the object of his thoughts. “I uh. Brought you something."

By chance, on his way out of the lecture hall earlier, he'd found a glittery hair clip. It's one of the cheap ones he'd always seen little girls wearing, with sparkling flower petals and a thick, plastic base. It isn't indestructible, but if Mothman's capable of tying ribbons and picking flowers then it should do, right?

He takes a step forward. Mothman's wings twitch at his sides.

"Come on," he mutters, plucking it out of his pocket and holding it out in front of him. "It's yours."

Like a dog smelling out new home visitors, the cryptid flits closer in small, uneven steps; his eyes blink almost too fast for Keith to catch, twitching in the socket as all focus narrows to a single point. His proboscis, curled up until now, unfurls partially and pokes out towards Keith hand.

"Easy now," Matt says from somewhere behind him. Keith hadn't even noticed that he'd left the guy's side, breaking free from their line to meet Mothman somewhere in the middle. He's struck fleetingly with his own exposure, his vulnerability to this huge, hulking creature.

Mothman comes to a stop several feet in front of the hair clip.

 _He's huge,_ Keith thinks, dizzy. Of course he already knew how massive Mothman was—few could boast as many unfortunate encounters with a third kind as he'd had—but to see the thing up close and utterly still is an experience all on its own. He towers over Keith at around seven feet tall, packed with muscle and hardened chitin shell. Each of his wings alone is probably nearly as big as Keith himself.

And yet, dwarfed by this massive, dark creature, he can't summon more than a half-cup of fear from the depths of his gut. Not when the creature in question sways back and forth like a pigeon eyeing a soft piece of bread, bobbing in place.

"Go on," he tells him. "Take it."

One of Mothman's hands twitches at his side, fingers wriggling and flexing, and then he raises it slowly, steadily, to reach out and pluck the clip from Keith's fingers. Their bodies never touch; one moment Keith's staring at that hand hovering his own, and the next, the clip is gone from his fingers, cradled in one of Mothman's palms.

He turns it this way and that, holding up the thing to the light. A soft buzzing hums through the air, tickling its way into Keith's eardrums.

"It's a hair clip," he explains. Not that Mothman would know what he's talking about—for all Keith knows, his vocabulary is intensely limited—but he feels like the silence between them should be filled somehow. He clears his throat, drawing the cryptid's gaze back up for a second. He gestures to his own hair, mimicking the motions of tucking back hair. "For your hair."  
  
Mothman skitters, fingers rubbing over the green glitter glue on the flower's leaves. He cocks his head to one side and buzzes slightly louder in slow, even beats. It kinda reminds Keith of a kazoo.

"That's right," he says. "For your hair."  
  
Mothman stares at him a moment longer, bobbing slowly. And then, before either Matt nor Keith himself can make a move, he steps into Keith's space. Under the new moon his shadow is negligible, but his sheer mass blocks out the light above. He's so close that all Keith can smell is redwood musk, like old bark and furling, wet undergrowth. He inhales shakily.

And then, fingers steadily reaching, proboscis curled carefully at his maw, Mothman reaches out and slips the clip into Keith's hair.

His fingers, for all the strength they're undoubtedly capable of, are surprisingly gentle. He's not very good at it (though really, what Mothman _would_ be?) and clumsily snaps the clip into place, but the intent is very clear. He places it right where Keith gestured it to be, tucking back part of his bangs behind one temple, before stepping back again and bobbing once in place. _Buzz buzz._

Keith stares up in wonder. "Thank you," he says faintly, once he's remembered how to speak. "Uh.."

"He's never done that before," Matt murmurs. "That's.. new."

Ignorant of their shock, Mothman goes back to shuffling around the clearing. The way he hops from spot to spot, shifting his wings but never quite taking off, reminds Keith of swimmers warming up before they go for a dive. He watches, dumbstruck, one hand frozen over the hair clip.

The longer he considers this new side of Mothman, the more he's surprised by how different he feels compared to his dreams. Their first encounter was an ugly one—blood seems to be a reoccurring, unfortunate trend in that regard—but aside from Shiro's sudden shift, every encounter since has been innocent. The way Mothman appears to view him, leaving sparkly gifts and treating him with utmost care in his freakish, roundabout cryptid way, is somehow endearing. Keith is treasured, the aim of affections of a beastly creature who knows nothing of human boundaries. It's unsettling, but not as terrifying as it used to be.

 _It's like being liked by a dumb dog,_ he thinks, watching Mothman bob about like a bird. He comes to a stop a couple feet away from Keith, dark eyes staring blankly in his direction, and his proboscis furls and unfurls like a party blower.

 _What do you smell?_ He wonders. Is it him? Does he smell the traces of Shiro left in Keith's clothes, or the ham sandwich he ate before coming to the clearing? Does he smell Keith's sweat from his midterm suffering extravaganza, or the detergent of his sheets?

_What goes on in your brain?_

"He should be leaving soon," Matt remarks, coming to stand at Keith's side. They both watch Mothman flex his arms and do a couple squats, preparing his muscles for flight. "To do cryptid things. Or moth things." He pauses, considering. "Moth cryptid things."  
"Do you wait for him to come back?" Keith asks. "How long does he take?"

"Hours." Matt shrugs. "I waited the first couple times, but the pattern's always the same. He never comes back sooner than dawn. It's easier to just show up when I know he's on his way."

In other words, Keith's witnessing tonight is over. He hadn't thought to bring anything to wait out for this trip—had been too frazzled with his exams and then Shiro's shift to think about stopping by his room.

 _I'll have to remember for tomorrow,_ he thinks. Because he is returning tomorrow—and the day after that, and the day after that. Even if it's just for a little while.

If he's going to commit to sticking around Shiro then they have to get over this speedbump. There's no other way than this.

 _We're going to get familiar with each other, you and I._ He watches Mothman make his final twists, shrugging his shoulders and wriggling about. The new moon is already past its zenith, clouds thickening to swamp paltry illumination and chill the night air further. _For better or for worse._

.

"So." Pidge fishes out another piece of boba, slurping it noisily through her straw.

"So," he echoes.

Around them, student hubbub is reaching its weekly zenith. Fridays are prime days for going into downtown for snacks—particularly this one, since the sun is out in full force despite their hard veer towards November's typically unforgiving weather. Keith cups his hands around his boba and stares through the plastic, watching the little black balls bob around.

"It's the new moon," she says casually. "Started yesterday, didn't it?"

He frowns, sinking back in his seat until his chin barely clears the table. This low, his view of Pidge is perfectly blocked by his drink. "Yeah," he mumbles. "It did."  
Pidge hums. A new song starts up on the overhead flat-screens, filling their ears with bubblegum pop and syrupy-sweet melodies. The boba shop's front door rings over and over as students come and go, teas in hand.

"You already know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

He leans to the side to fix Pidge with a blank stare. "Probably." He's known this question would pop up eventually, has geared himself up for the inevitable since the night they recorded his first date into the leatherbound notebook.

Pidge is a woman of science. She asks questions, hypothesizes, designs solutions and experiments to figure out the way the world works. No stone can be left unturned in her wake.

She's a woman of observation.

"If Matt can come then so can I," she tries, fishing out another boba pearl. "And you've had even less experience with him."  
  
"He likes me." Keith wipes one finger through excess condensation, swirling it into a pattern. "We don't know if it'll be the same for you."  
  
"He didn't kill me that one time," she says cheerfully. "How do we know this won't have the same results?"

"We don't." He stops. He's drawn a little moth in the condensation without even thinking about it. He scowls, rubbing it out. "And that's why Matt says no."  
  
"Matt isn't the boss of me, and neither are you." She leans back in her chair and purses her lips. "I'm not asking for your permission, Keith. I'm coming one way or another."  
  
"It's not what Shiro would want," he tries, but it's not quite the truth. He's never even thought to ask Shiro—didn't have the chance to this morning, since he didn't show up to class.

"Did you even ask?" Pidge says, reading his mind. He scowls at her. "Keith, be reasonable here. You can't keep him all to yourself."

"That's not what—"

"Isn't it, though?" She raises both eyebrows and gives him a skeptical look. "You never bring him around. Are you embarrassed to show him off or something?"

"No!" He flushes. "It's just—we're still figuring things out."

It's the truth. Between midterm season and the huge, cryptid-sized question in their daily lives, there's a lot of ground to cover. They don't have a lot of time to sit around and play twenty questions with grades (that they _pay_ to get) hanging over their heads. If anything, Keith spends more time stressing over his own dish than looking at Shiro's.

They each have a pair of shoes only they can fill. Bringing Shiro around when they're both hassled, both exhausted, both worrying over the waning moon is just icing on a cake with too many layers. There really _hasn't_ been time to introduce Shiro and Pidge to each other again.

But now that midterm season has begun to fade, the lurking question of what daily life will look like is becoming bigger and bigger. Being Mothman is a huge chunk of Shiro's life, yeah, but it isn't all of it.

"We'll all go out to eat soon," he promises, and Pidge slouches back in her seat, temporarily pacified.

Just then, another text comes in on Keith's cell. He sits up and fishes it out of his pocket.

**Shiro: i have a little time before it gets too late. wanna get food?**

"It's him, isn't it."

"Is it that obvious?" He peeks up from his phone screen to Pidge's smirk. She waggles her eyebrows.

"Remember what I said about the _princess look?_ "

He gives her the middle finger and goes back to texting.

**Keith: already downtown with Pidge. what r u in the mood for?**

**Shiro: anything greasy. changing burns a lot of calories and all**

**Shiro: why doesn't she come along with us?**

**Keith: u sure?**

**Shiro: the more the merrier! (:**

"Hey, remember what I just said about getting something to eat?" He looks up. "What are you doing in an hour?"

 

They all end up at the Five Guys down the street, crunching through two trays of peanuts while they wait for their order. Keith cracks the shells with violent relish and pretends he isn't already regretting the cheese that's going to sit in his stomach for the next year. Lactose intolerance is a bitch.

"So, Shiro," Pidge says. She doesn’t like peanuts as much as they do but cracks open the shells for Keith to eat out of. Neat as always, she stacks the snapped peanut shells in a perfect pile and licks the salt from her fingers between handfuls. "How are you holding up?"

"With.." He pauses, a handful of shelled peanuts in his palm, shoulders tensing. "Classes?"

 _Oh no,_ Keith realizes with a jolt. _I didn't tell him—_

"With being a cryptid," Pidge says bluntly. Keith winces. Shiro goes stock still, his palmful of nuts falling to the table. Ten minutes of careful deshelling begins to spill to the floor.

"Your nuts are dropping," Pidge squeaks. Her eyes flick to Keith. "Did you not tell him?"

"No," he hisses. "And we're in _public,_ Pidge. What if somebody heard?" Not that anyone would believe them even if they could—Taylor Swift is blaring from the speakers loud enough to trigger an aneurysm—but it's the principle of it all. Pidge at least has the decency to shrink in her seat, eyes narrowing accusingly.

"No—" Shiro coughs. He scoops up what's left of his nuts and jams them all in his mouth at once to cover for his constipated expression. "'S fine." He chews and swallows before flashing them a tight smile. "I figured you'd find out eventually. You're Matt's sister, after all."  
  
"Sorry for asking," she mutters, slouching in her stool. She looks between the two of them, expressions sour, and focuses on cracking open another nut. At this rate they'll need a third tray. "I didn’t think you’d mind."  
  
_You didn't think at all,_ Keith thinks, but he holds his tongue. Shiro shakes his head, smile softening into something real.

"It's fine. You just—surprised me, is all." He slides two fingers through the shell dust and salt on the table, brow furrowing. "It's going as it usually does, I guess."  
  
"What does that mean?"

His gaze flits from Keith's frown—he can feel his mouth pinching down at the corners, but really, he can't help it—and then drags away to their approaching server. The tray of burgers visibly steams.

"Nothing," he murmurs. "Who's hungry?"

Since Pidge's tackled the bull by the horns, the rest of the meal falls into a tired familiarity. Shiro doesn't bother putting up a front with anyone who knows his secret, apparently; he slouches over his burgers and devours them with alarming speed before sitting back to sink into his food coma. The dexterity at which he answers Pidge's questions about his daily life (does your diet change at all? How do you feel when you pass a lantern?) amazes Keith; if it'd been up to him, Pidge would have been banished to her own table after the first five questions.

("I don't feel any different about lights than you or Keith," Shiro says. "And yes, that includes candles.")

They split up just before sunset, Keith and Pidge waiting at the metro for the next campus bus to swing by. Shiro grabs Keith before he can fall into line with the other students, one hand coming up to clasp around his wrist. They stop to look at each other.  
  
"I'll see you later," Shiro murmurs. His grip is warm against Keith's skin, sending a light tingle from his hand all the way up to his elbow. He stares up into those dark eyes and feels a flush begin to creep up his neck.

"Yeah," he whispers. And then, before either of them can think too hard about Pidge's hawkeyed stare, they lean in and hug each other. Keith closes his eyes and savors the solid, warm comfort of Shiro's hardened biceps squeezing around his shoulders.

Shiro steps back after several beats, fingers lingering on Keith's cheek. From the way his lips purse, eyes flickering between Keith's eyes and lips, it doesn't take a genius to know what he's thinking about. Keith feels himself flush harder and bites his lip but doesn't look away.

"Stay safe," he tells him. "I'll be there soon."  
  
"I'll be waiting." Shiro takes another step back, fingers falling from Keith's face. "See you."  
  
Keith watches him walk several steps away before he stops and swings around.

"Bring more hair clips!" Shiro calls. "He seemed to like them."

"What is he talking about?" Pidge frowns, turning to stare. Keith turns bright red and jerks his hands into his jacket. He doesn't bother answering.

 

For all her questions over dinner, Pidge is surprisingly quiet on their walk to the clearing. They make pace with the sinking sun, bundled in just enough layers to combat that night's sharp winds. Keith leads the way solely out of muscle memory; behind him, Pidge follows closely without a word.

The clearing looks just the same as the night before. Matt leans against a fallen log and scratches at his five-o'clock shadow. At their arrival he jumps to his feet, a smile lighting up his features.

"You made it! Knew it wouldn't take too long—"  
Pidge stomps right up to his open arms and lodges one tiny fist into his gut. He stops to choke, folding at the waist like a sheet of paper.

"That's for keeping me out of the loop for two years," she says pleasantly.

Shiro emerges from the treeline just as Keith stops to adjust his shoelaces. Even with extra lines around his eyes and a black scarf wrapped around half his head he looks cute. Keith's heart thumps painfully in his chest at the sight of his weary smile.

"You both made it," he hums, wrapping Keith up in a quick hug. "Of course you did."  
  
"Thanks for letting me be here," Pidge says. She tucks her hair behind her ears and nods solemnly at the rising moon. "Keith talked me through it all."  
  
Shiro smiles softly. "It'll be any minute now. You'd best take a seat."  
  
When he transforms, body hunching at awful, awkward angles, Pidge's hand snaps tightly around Keith's arm. Through his jacket he can feel the pinch of her fingernails. Her eyes are small moons behind her glasses, mouth parted ever so slightly.

"Oh," she whispers. Her nails continue to bite in on Keith's arm. " _Oh_."

This time Keith serves as the mediator. He steps into the clearing before Matt can say anything, several clips bunched into his fist. Mothman buzzes and shuffles up to meet him like a friendly dog.

"I brought more," he tells him. Mothman bobs once in response. "Do you want to see them?"

When he holds them out in his palm, the cryptid doesn't hesitate to snatch every single one at once. The sharp hairs on his arms gleam in the weak light as he works the clips through his fingers, inspecting them thoroughly. A low humming buzz starts up and tickles at Keith's eardrums.

"Is this what he meant?" Pidge breathes. She takes one small step forward but doesn't get any closer. Mothman's head snaps up to stare at her, and then, deciding she isn't a threat, goes back to ogling his new prizes. "He likes.. hair clips?"

"Glittery hair clips," Keith corrects. He'd felt a little silly giving them to the cashier at CVS, but the way Mothman bobs up and down as if he might launch himself into the sky makes it all worth it.

"Right," she deadpans, taking another step. "Of course."

This time Keith is prepared for Mothman's sudden styling urges. He shoves the clips haphazardly into Keith's bangs; one manages to hold back his hair, but the other two dangle oddly into his eyes. Keith adjusts them carefully, not daring to remove them with those huge eyes staring him down.

"You're beautiful," Pidge laughs, observing their interaction from several feet away. "Really stylish, Keith."   
  
The last clip is still tucked into his jacket, and when he pulls it out, Mothman's wings twitch. It's the biggest clip of them all: a bright purple butterfly unfurling its wings, complete with hot pink sparkles and swirly antennae. Keith holds it up between two fingers, showing it off for the cryptid. Mothman bobs and stays squatted, buzzing softly.

"For you," he says quietly.

There's only a foot between their bodies. The distance is easy for Keith to brace himself and cross, stepping into the cryptid's personal space. This close, the musk of redwood and earth fills his nose, tangling in his brain in dark, confusing knots; when he stares up into Mothman’s face, the aroma permeates every pore and fills up his insides in swirly threads that send his heart racing.

 _You can do it,_ he tells himself. _You rehearsed it all day._

Slowly, with gentle, careful fingers, he reaches up and places one hand at the side of Mothman's head.

He doesn't know what he was expecting. Maybe for the hairs to feel the same as the ones on his arms look, all spiny and boar-bristled? And yet, spreading out his palm on Mothman's left cheek, all of the pinprick sensations tickling at his skin can only be summed up as _soft._

He parts his lips and slides his hand back and forth, getting a better feel for the texture. It's.. thick, yeah, but also soft and mildly bristly the way some dog's coats are. It almost feels like the faux fur pillows on his aunt's couch.

Mothman doesn't move for the first few seconds but stares into Keith's eyes, stock-still and unblinking. And then, as he begins to rub at the side of his head, the cryptid's shoulders relax and his body leans downward, opening his posture for Keith to get a better grasp.

He stands on his tiptoes to pet at the hairs further up on top of Mothman's head, sliding down the back and around the left again. The buzzing gets even louder.

With a steady hand, he brings up the hair clip and shows it to Mothman again; when he doesn't move, Keith slowly leans in and slides the butterfly right on top of the cryptid's head, fastening it to a small bunch of red hairs.

"There," he whispers, taking a step back. "Now we match, see?"

Mothman blinks slowly, eyes shining in the low light, and bobs up and down once. A familiar hum clouds the back of Keith's brain, taking hold of the swirling musky threads and tightening them around his thoughts, but he doesn't fear. Traces of underlying emotion are beginning to become clear there, mixed in with tangled, buzzing fog. _Warmth, admiration, pleasure._

 _For you,_ he thinks warmly. _I brought it for you._

Mothman blinks again, one hand reaching out to tap at the clips in Keith's hair. He hums low enough for Keith to feel it in his teeth, in his skull, in his chest.

**_ThANK You._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a second to thank everyone who leaves comments, whether it's weekly or at random points throughout the story. Your reactions and questions really lift me up when I'm unmotivated to write and it makes me so happy that others are getting as much out of this as I am.  
> When I first started writing this fic I never believed I would get this far--I only wanted to write a short scene about eating pistachios, believe it or not. The fact that this fic will probably hit the 100k mark is mind-blowing for me.  
> Whether you're just stopping by or willing to stay until the very end: thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> (And for the record that bullshit with the broken calculator totally happened to me.)
> 
> [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	10. Silence of the Moths

The eyes are everywhere. 

Fingers tracing the velvety tips of bone-white lilies, he stands in that field and waits for the darkness to swallow him. The stars retain their shift—ever accurate to the idiosyncrasies he's found staring into heaven when he can't sleep, he appreciates the subtle imbalance they carry—and twinkle around a moon full enough to cut a perfect white hole in the nothingness of space. He sucks in a single, chilly breath and exhales a cloud of steam.

Black and yellow enough to glow like acid—there are too many eyes to count, blinking and gleaming, watching him in the back of his head. Some have pupils like snakes; others, lacking any distinction beyond a wet, clear lens, swallow light in thirsty, all-consuming pupils.

**_YOU._ **

_ Me.  _ He knows instinctively that he has no real body, but the knowledge does little to quell the goosebumps riling on invisible skin, nothing to soothe the fear that stabs through his heart like a sharpened blade, ripping muscle and pouring his life out into the dirt.

The wind picks up and rustles the lilies, knocking huge, white petals into each other. Ivory fragments fly up and swirl around as they did before, blinding him and stinging where they lash at his vulnerable, pale flesh. The trees knock and clatter together, groaning lamentations to a sky that stands far away, indifferent to their pain.

And then, amidst the flurry of white, a voice begins to chant.

The voice is so quiet that he can barely capture separate syllables, threading on the wind in gossamer strands that threaten to snap at a moment's notice. Monotone cadence and a rough, husky tone that chafes at his eardrums until he's sure they're sore, bleeding. The words rattle his bones, clattering and clanging the whole way down his spine until they knock and sit in his stomach like an old stone.

The huge white wings unfurl as they did before and shred every bloom to pieces; the shards meet those already fluttering in the air, flying like released doves into the sky until they appear to join the stars. He stands, frozen, and watches them disappear into the void.

The voice’s weight tugs insistently at his navel and forces him to his knees. He reaches out with invisible palms to steady himself against the ground and his palms slip against wet soil slicking skin and riling every hair to stand at attention.

His eyelids weigh so heavy that it aches to move his eyes. He drags his gaze from the sky to the bare remains of the lilies, and then to soil that gleams unnaturally dark, dark enough to reflect the stars.

_ Blood,  _ he realizes, turning his hands over. Rust smears his skin, tracing fingerprints and old scars where it sinks and stains deep.  _ It's all blood. _

The chanting stops all at once, and one by one, every eye begins to close until only one is left.

Black, blacker, it opens and opens, reaching and tangling his thoughts in a slimy, inky net. He sucks in a breath and tastes copper on his tongue, sludgy and thick, pouring down his throat like hot pudding, sticking to his teeth, his lips, bubbling over his chin. He opens wider and  _ screams _ —

"Keith?"

His eyes snap open.

The ceiling has a tiny scratch on it—a marker prick from someone who laid in this bed before him, tracing the bumps and lumps in the plaster. He reaches one hand out and slides his forefinger over it. His hands, he notes, aren't red at all, but pale and calloused like always.

He lets out a low, wheezing breath. His throat aches, chafes like he's been screaming.

"Keith."

He wets his lips, dropping his hand and rolling onto his side. His heart is thumping so loud in his ribs, he's sure Lance can hear it. "Yeah?"

There's a moment of silence broken only by quiet shuffling of slippered feet and rumpled sheets. Lance sighs quietly.

"Nothing."

The door slams. After a couple of minutes, the familiar hiss of the shower starts up.

Keith stares at the ceiling and counts to ten.

And then he gets up.

.

"Weird dreams," Pidge echoes. She looks up from her cell phone with a frown. "What kind of weird are we talking?"

Keith rolls his tongue over his teeth. He can still taste hot copper and salt, choking him, slipping down his throat like a live eel. He shudders and jams his fingers into his sweatshirt pocket, crossing shaking fingers where Pidge can't see.

"Human sacrifices." 

"Oh." Pidge stares out the bus window, brow creasing. "I see."

After what probably constituted the most uncomfortable morning routine of the quarter (see: pretending your roommate doesn't exist when you're both changing two feet away from each other and then using the kitchen at the same time) Keith had been all too happy to escape to Pidge's building. He'd found her a sloppy mess over her computer, pretzel dust everywhere across her desk, and shaken her awake for their grocery trip.

It had only taken her twenty minutes to get ready once Keith grabbed her an energy drink from the fridge. A new record.

But he can’t shake what he saw from his memory. The shadows of his dreams pale in comparison to the way the sun streams through smudged bus windows, combining with packed warm bodies to heat his skin—and yet, belly full of oatmeal and coffee, a huge hole still exists where his navel is.

_ Right where the words were,  _ he thinks, and shivers again.

"Have you been having them often?" She presses, pocketing her phone. Brown eyes shift from the window to fix on him, taking in the wrinkles of his shirt, his under-eye shadows, the downturn of his lips.

Somewhere in the back of Keith's brain, a low, warped snarl echoes.

**_You._ **

"No." He coughs, picking at a hole in the seat's cover. "Not really." 

"Not really." The furrow between her eyebrows deepens. "How many times is  _ not really _ ?"

"Nothing, just—" He tears his gaze away. Those eyes stare too deep into him, reading him like an open book. It's uncomfortable. "Just twice." 

"Keith," she breathes. "If you need help or something—" 

"I don't. They're just dreams. And even if I did—" He stops.  _ Even if I did, I wouldn't want to tell you. _

Pidge seems to read his mind anyway—she's a genius like that, a guaranteed  _ Keith whisperer  _ as Lance called it, once. She leans back in her seat and purses her lips but lets the topic go in favor of something else.

"How's everything going on home base? You and Lance still going at it?"

He scowls, hunching his shoulders. "How do you know about that?"

"Keith." Pidge adjusts her glasses and gives him a  _ look.  _ "Lance walked around this morning like he had a six-foot light post shoved up his rectum. Are you saying you weren't the one to put it there?"

"What's that got to do with me? Maybe he's just like that." Pidge looks unimpressed. She raises an eyebrow.  _ "What?" _ He snaps, exasperated.

"It's too early in the day for the sky to have fallen in," she says. "Also I ran into Hunk at the laundry room last night. He told me everything."

"Damn him," Keith mutters.

"What are you gonna do about it? You know you two can't avoid each other forever. You live on top of each other, literally."

"I'll figure it out," he grumbles, turning away. "Don't worry about it." 

"That's what I do, Keith," she murmurs. A small hand slides to rest on his thigh, tapping a rhythm there in tiny, gentle beats. "We have to look out for each other. You know that." 

He does. In the past year they've only really had each other—a tiny pair in a ramshackle boat, riding the waves of their new college experience. When Pidge was sick with the flu, he made the forty-five minute bus drive to get her medicine from the store; when he came down with a depressive episode in the middle of winter finals, Pidge was the one knocking on his door with highlighters, snacks, and lined paper in tow. They'd pulled all-nighters together, gotten drunk for the first time together, laughed and cried together.

He wonders, fleetingly, whether Pidge resented all the time he's spent with Shiro in the past couple weeks. He can't tell on the outside but..

"I'll fix it," he promises, slipping one hand out of his pocket. His fingers dwarf hers, tangling and locking together between their thighs. "Just leave it to me." 

She flushes softly, lips curving at the corners, and rests one cheek on his shoulder. "If you say so,  _ mullet. _ But don’t think I won’t worry the whole time.”

“I know,” he says. He rests his head on top of her own and closes his eyes. “I know.”

.

Saturday at the local CVS means exactly two cash registers are open and they’re both packed with customers into the candy aisle. 

Pidge loops a red basket under one arm and they take a walk through the Halloween decorations, just as tradition calls. In a year’s time none of them have improved—if Keith didn’t know any better, he might say that they’re the exact same decorations dusted off and set out again with a full price tag.

“Do you think my housemates would mind if I put this in the kitchen?” Pidge holds up a spectacularly painted severed head, complete with mottled gums and bulging, veiny eyes. “It really speaks to me.”  
  
“Not another dancing witch?” He’s half-tempted to press play on all of their pedestals, just to see what would happen. “I thought you liked those better.”

Pidge hums. "Not really in a jiggy mood this time around." 

After a minute's worth of rifling through material, they settle on a nice, dangly skeleton to hang in Pidge's room, along with a giant bag of Halloween snack-size candies. Keith's made his custom trip to the next aisle over for his peach rings (a staple, even if they don't fit the season) and they're just gearing up to step into the cashier conga line, when Pidge sees it.

"You can't  _ not  _ buy it," she announces, holding it up. "It was  _ made  _ for you, Keith."  
  
"I don't know. It looks stupid."  
  
She scowls at him over the object clutched to her chest like a teddy bear. "If you won't buy it for yourself then I'll buy it for you."  
  
The object in question is a stand-up, plastic Mothman with flashing red eyes. Keith notes wings and a solemn model cast that suspiciously mirror a praying angel's—paint-over job done in the back, or what?

"It's not accurate," he says. "It looks too much like a fly. Or a praying woman.”  
  
"It's three dollars," Pidge says, and throws it into the cart. "Live a little."

They get into line and begin the excruciating wait for their turn. At the front, an old woman pulls out her coin purse to pay and sprays quarters all over the ground. When the cashier offers to come around and help, she snaps her teeth like a dog, windmilling arms to keep everyone else away.

"Oh dear," a girl in front of them sighs. "I hope she doesn't hurt her back like that."

Keith blinks over at her. With her back to them, the most he can glean is cropped black hair, doll-like eyelashes, one hand clenched in a knitted shawl— 

"Shay?"

The woman's lips part and she turns, round eyes getting bigger at the sight of them. Her lips turn up at the corners in obvious delight, a sweet smile blooming.

"Oh, it's you two—Pidge and Kevin!"  
  
"Keith," he corrects automatically. "It's Keith—"  
  
"It's been a while," Pidge greets, sticking out a hand to shake. Shay balances her basket on one hip and takes it. Her fingernails sparkle with green glitter, dazzling and dizzying. A ring shaped like a smiling cat's head grins up at them from two fingers. "How have you and your grandma been?"

"Managing," she says. "She's getting plenty of customers with the changing seasons. And one of our cats, Josephine, had a litter. We've been busy caring for them as well." She twines a strand of hair around one finger, frowning. "What about you two? Does the darkness still plague your shadows?"  
  
Pidge and Keith exchange a glance.

"That's.." Pidge clears her throat. "Um, not exactly."  
  
"That's a relief, then. Grandmother's been talking about the darkness lately—told me to warn you two to be careful in the near future." She smiles, though the crease between her eyebrows stays. "She had a hunch that I'd see you both soon, of course. Gave me words to pass on."

"Like what?"

Her finger stops moving and she stares at the ceiling for a moment, lost in thought. And then, hazel eyes flickering back down to meet Keith's, she pins him to the floor and whispers in her soft, sweet tone.

_ "The full moon is taking flight soon. Be mindful of your shadow. _ "

They all blink at one another.

"What does that mean, exactly?" Keith huffs, raising an eyebrow. "I thought it was the new moon we're supposed to be focusing on."  
  
"I don't know the specifics," she says, "only what Grandmother gave me to say. She said it would make a little more sense to you."  
  
"It doesn't," he admits. "Not right now, anyway."  
  
"I see. I'm sorry I couldn't be more help." She smiles sadly, switching her basket to her other hip. "Grandmother only works in hunches and impressions, after all. You'll know what it means when it comes to pass."  
  
"I guess we will," Pidge murmurs. She looks far away, mouth curling down as it had so soon before. "Thank you anyway. And tell your grandma we said hello."  
  
"Of course." Shay takes the last step forward and plunks her basket on the conveyor belt. "I'll relay the message. She'll be pleased to hear from you."  
  
By the time their own things are rung up and stuffed into Pidge's backpack, Shay has disappeared into the fray of downtown. They walk to the metro in silence, chewing over her parting message.

_ Be mindful of your shadow.  _ As if Keith isn't already doing enough of that already—hasn't been stressing for weeks over what he believed to be a giant buggy stalker, hasn't been pulling his hair out over dodging Lance and Hunk's prodding questions about where he goes at night and what Shiro's like. What else could there be to watch out for?

_ The full moon taking flight.. _

"The full moon," Pidge murmurs. "What could it be about the full moon? Shiro's human all the time then. Unless—" She stops, jostling Keith into slamming into her backside. "It's a time limit."  
  
He frowns, shoving her to keep walking. "You think so?"

"I don't know." Pidge slams her fist against the crosswalk button and they exchange a look. "I guess we'll know when it gets here. Have you heard from Shiro yet today?"

"No," Keith admits, but he takes his phone out again to check. Nothing. "He's busy prepping for tonight. I'll be sure to let him know anyway though."

He punches in a short message while they wait for the bus.

**Keith: how does the full moon tie in on ur moth stuff? is it important at all??**

The bus takes ten minutes to pull into the station, and another twenty to make it all the way to their college on campus. They make the slow, steady trek up the hill towards Keith's apartment, the designated party location for the evening since Pidge's other housemate called dibs on their living room.

The apartment is suspiciously quiet—no signs of Lance beyond his blue plastic cup in the sink and merengue blaring from underneath the bathroom door. Underneath the frantic beat Keith can hear the shower running again.

"Should I pop the popcorn now or later?" Pidge wonders, dumping their load onto the counter. "Do you think Hunk would be offended by us using Orville instead of Pop-Secret?"

"Throw me a Kit-Kat," he calls, rearranging the furniture to face the wall for movies. Whoever said living with an RA was terrible had never lived with Allura; all it took was a minute of wheedling, apparently, and she handed over her projector without a second thought. Keith wouldn't trust a pair of grubby sophomores so quickly, but who was he to complain?

He snatches the candy aimed at his head and rips it open, taking a huge bite. The shitty, store-brand chocolate is a godsend after several weeks of being limited to cafeteria food—not that Hunk doesn't make cookies practically sent by Jesus himself, but sometimes what you really crave is a greasy, bad Kit-Kat.

"You can't be serious," Pidge says, watching him eat. "We've been friends for a year and a half and I'm only finding out  _ just now  _ that you bite into your Kit-Kat's like a chocolate bar? What are you, some sort of savage?"

"What?" He sniffs, cramming the rest of it in his mouth. "It's not like there's a specific way to eat them."  
  
Pidge stares at him. He scowls around a mouthful of chocolate and turns away before she can contradict everything he's ever believed in.

Just then, Hunk pokes his head into the living room. His whole face lights up at the sight of Pidge at the counter, fingers tightening at the door frame. Keith has to crack a smile when he steps into full view; he's got on his chef apron and a big, white matching hat.

"A chef for Halloween?" He asks, throwing the last pillows back on the couch. "Fitting."

"Sorta." Hunk cracks a shy smile. "Wait til you see Lance." He rests one arm against the counter and takes in the rearranged furniture, the bagged popcorn out, the candy bag split open to let its innards pour out to graze on. "Oh, this is what you were talking about, wasn't it Keith?"

Keith leaves the table Pidge-leg-length away from the couch and stands straight to crack his back. "Yeah. We're using Allura's projector."  
  
"Customary Mario Kart and some movies," Pidge chimes in, tearing open a Dots box to pour them all into her mouth at once. She chews around the candy in heavy movements, visibly wrenching her jaw apart to speak. "'Gonn' eat shitty popcorn."  
  
"Nothing for dinner?" Hunk's brow furrows at the idea. "Won't that make you sick?"

Pidge swallows. "I'm here for a good time, not a long time."  
  
"Fair enough—but I have leftovers in the fridge you both can eat. Ham and cheese soup." He smiles crookedly. "Lance will probably make us stop by Big Sal's before we make it to the party. He's picky about his pre-game food."

"You would be too, if every party you went to exclusively served Tostito's scoop chips." Lance magically appears in the doorway swathed in his robe, steam wafting out into the hall behind him. His eyes flicker from Pidge to Keith, and his mouth visibly turns down. "Hey Pidge."  
  
"Hey," she says cautiously. "Want a Hershey's?"

"Not right now—it's bad for my skin, and I'm already having stress breakouts." He stares staunchly at Pidge, but his shoulders rise all the same. "You know how it is."  
  
"Not really," she replies, shrugging. "More for me, then."

"Hunk." Lance fixes his best friend with a  _ look.  _ "Come help me decide on which shirt to wear?"

"Didn't you already have it decided?"

"Well, I thought I did, but then while I was in the shower I thought.."   


Keith watches them drift into his and Lance's shared room, the door slamming behind them. After a moment of low murmuring, the merengue starts up again with renewed vigor.

His gaze flicks back to Pidge and he finds her giving her own type of skeptical expression. She raises an eyebrow.

"So what was that about working it out yourself?"

"What?" He scowls, flopping back on the couch. "When would I have had time to do it? You want me to fix it with you and Hunk right here?"

"God, no." She wanders over to the fridge and pops it open. "Just reminding you, is all."  
  
Staying away from Lance is both a curse and a blessing, he thinks; the distance means Lance isn't banging on the door while he's trying to take a shit, yelling that he left his cologne in the second drawer, but it also means every moment they share breathing space is another second of frozen silence. It's uncomfortable to say the least, but how would he even make amends when there's nothing he needs to apologize for?

(Aside from the obvious comment about how pathetic he is. Maybe he could say sorry for that, but he doesn't want to. Not yet.)

Waiting for Lance and Hunk to come out again is an agony all by itself. Keith spends about a half hour watching Pidge rifle through their movie selection while simultaneously pretending he isn't watching for the bedroom door. Not that he would  _ do  _ anything when it opens, but. It's good to prepare himself. Or something.

When the two of them finally emerge, Lance is shirtless and in the tiniest grey shorts Keith has ever seen. He also has giant mouse ears.

"You got an ascot to go with that?" Pidge asks, looking up from  _ The Evil Dead  _ and  _ Scary Movie 3.  _ "Y'know. To really complete the look."  
  
Lance looks down at himself with a frown. "Do you think that would have made it better?"

Her lips twitch. "Hard to say."

"You look great anyway," Hunk placates, patting Lance's shoulder. "I think you look cute even if nobody else does."  
  
"Thanks Hunk. Glad to know you've got my back."

They make tea and shuffle back into the bedroom so Lance can apply all of his makeup and body glitter that he bought specially for tonight. Keith stares out the window, noting the steady sinking of the sun, and sighs loud enough for Pidge to look up again.

"It's getting close to  _ that  _ time, huh?" She carefully orders the DVD's by the order they're going to watch them in, before tucking them all under the TV set. "Do you want to get ready to go?"

"Probably, yeah." Keith frowns. "Except I forgot hair clips."  
  
"Oh. Is there anything else you know he likes?" She parts her lips thoughtfully, tilting her head. "Real flowers, maybe? Or—"  
  
The sudden silence turns Keith's head. Pidge is staring at him with her mouth open, brows drawn together as if she's suddenly had a perplexing thought.

"Keith," she says. "Do you think Lance would let us borrow some of his body glitter?"

"He sort of hates me right now," he points out.

"Good point." Her lips twitch at the corners—a devilish smirk beginning to form, curving wicked-sharp. "But he'd let just  _ me  _ borrow some, right?"

.

When they pick their way through the underbrush, pockets full of candy and Pidge's notebook clutched to her chest for dutiful note-making, Keith does his best not to pick at his skin. He can feel the unfamiliar itch where the salve dried across his cheekbones, riding up his temples the way Allura's done so many times.

"How do you know he won't try to rip my face off?" He asks for the millionth time.   
  
"He won't," Pidge says, confident. "He'll think you're pretty—he already does, doesn't he? Besides, I don't think he's dumb enough to claw up your skin." He can see the glint of her smile when she looks back at him, grinning. "He's gentle with you."

Keith flushes and doesn't dare give a response.

At the very least, Matt seems to appreciate the body glitter. He hoots and claps his hands together at the sight of them, eyes sparkling in the darkness.

"Who's idea was that? Nevermind, I already know. You look great, Keith."  
  
"Thanks," he mutters, shoulders hunching self-consciously. "I guess."

Shiro walks in last of all and stares long enough at Keith's face for him to go hot, then cold. He tucks his chin into his collarbone and stares at the dirt on Shiro's shoes, cheeks flaming.

"It looks stupid, right?" He mutters, kicking at the ground. "It was Pidge's idea." Shiro's quiet for a long time, face unreadable as he scours over Keith's features, his mouth a thin line. When he smiles, soft and bright, all of Keith's breath dissipates in his lungs in an instant. Even with bruises under his eyes and dark shadows from the new moon, Shiro is  _ warm. _

"It's cute," he whispers, one thumb brushing against Keith's cheekbone. "I like it. And I think he'll like it too." It takes all of Keith's willpower not to combust on the spot.

Pidge braces herself against Keith's arm as Shiro makes his way into the clearing, fingernails carefully poised on the inside of his bicep. Her breath catches audibly behind his ear at the first signs of the shift—but he'd be kidding himself if he said his own air wasn't sucked out of his lungs. No matter how many times Shiro changed, the obvious pain he suffered would always squeeze tightly around Keith's heart, curling inward like a fist.

Mothman's wings flourish under the new moon like cut-out crafts of the universe, black and velvety, indistinguishable from the night sky if not for the careful white lines trimming the tips. Keith steps forward to greet him and notices Pidge drawing a careful sketch in her book to keep.

"I did some research after looking at his color scheme," she says, sketching away. "He doesn't look like any cryptids from popular movies—at least, not beyond the whole man-versus-moth scheme." She squints at Mothman's thorax for a moment, eyeing the smooth plating. "So I started looking at actual moths."   
  
"What did you find?" Matt asks, coming up to watch her draw. Beyond them, Keith is doing his best to stand very still. It seems Mothman has caught sight of his face glitter.

"His color palette made him an easy find. He actually resembles one of the species in the area from the ctenucha genus." She taps her pencil against her bottom lip. " _Ctenucha multifaria._ "   
  
"Ctenucha multifaria," Keith echoes softly. Mothman is close enough that he could stand up on his tiptoes and wrap his arms around his shoulders—though whether his fingers would meet is another matter entirely. Mothman is broader than Shiro, broad enough to serve as a solid plank for a door.

Mothman's fingers hover over Keith's exposed cheeks. The glassiness of his eyes makes it impossible to tell where he's looking; Keith's gaze flickers from fingertips to the scarlet head in front of him, trailing over ruffled hairs and huge, mirrored pupils. For the billionth time, he wonders what must be going on inside that head.

He doesn't know what he expects when Mothman touches him—he knows, based on the tiny touches the cryptid's graced him with, that he feels both human and inhuman—but the gentle nature of Mothman's hands startles him from any apprehension he might've harbored, lulling him into shy placidity. Though the shape of Mothman's hands are only slightly bigger than Shiro's, the cool, smooth nature of his exoskeleton refuses to let Keith forget that he's not the man Keith is growing to love. He is his own beast, a separate entity harbored within the same fleshy vessel.

Mothman's fingerpads touch down gently at Keith's cheekbone, three fingers pausing at the sharp angle before spreading out to line up along the curvature, gliding over the brilliant, silver glitter smeared there. His buzz is quiet enough that Keith knows the others can't hear it—a soft, low hum spread between their chests.

"I think he likes them," Matt chuckles quietly. Pidges murmurs agreement beside him, the frantic scratch of her pencil picking up speed.

The brush of Mothman's thoughts doesn't startle Keith the way it had before. Mothman's emotions slip cautiously over his own, threading together a vision of contentment and shy curiosity that belies the huge, hulking form it stems from. It would be too easy for the cryptid to seize Keith's thoughts the way he had before, to swallow his capability and reduce him to nothing, paralyzed by fear—

But he wasn't going to. Feeling the exposed live wires of Mothman's thoughts, Keith is sure of his own safety.

_ Do you like it?  _ He thinks, staring up into those dark, glassy eyes.  _ Pidge convinced me to put it on, just for you. _

Mothman leans in close enough for Keith's nose to almost brush his face. The humming in Keith's chest gets stronger, tugging at his muscles from the inside, tickling the back of his throat. And then, amidst the swirling flood of Mothman's emotions, a thought purifies and strains itself through the static, echoing in Keith's skull.

**_bEAUTIful._ **

Keith nearly chokes on his own spit.

"Keith? Something wrong?"

He swallows hard, taking a step back from the cryptid's trailing hand. His heart thrums hard enough to send pulses all the way to his head, his fingertips, his toes. "Fine," he croaks. "I'm fine."

"You sure? You look kinda red." Pidge shuffles a little closer. "Did.. he say something?"

The staticky thread of Mothman's thoughts pushes harder.  **_Keith. yOU aER BEAutfiul._ **

"It's nothing," Keith mumbles, but he can feel his face getting hot. "Just.. he likes the glitter is all." 

"Told you it was a good idea." Pidge beams.

Mothman doesn't stay too long after that—his thoughts flit in and out of Keith's brain, sending vague impressions of need and flightiness that remind Keith of himself, wired and raring to escape a noisy public area. He nods at the cryptid, sending his approval as best he can.

_ Go on. You know what you have to do. _

When Mothman takes to the sky, his wings appear to stretch into infinity, blanketing the stars.

.

Lance and Hunk have already left by the time they make it back to the apartment. Keith switches on the stove light and gets to heating up Hunk's leftovers in their rickety microwave, while Pidge drags out every last blanket and pillow she can get her hands on.

"Some of those are Lance's," he remarks, eyeing a fluffy blanket covered in dolphins. "Did you ask him if you could use it?"

"You don't ask for things, Keith." She flopped on top of the huge pile of blankets and rolled to swaddle herself into a human burrito. "You just do stuff and then ask for forgiveness later."

A statement he can't really argue with, so he shrugs and brings the heated soup to the coffee table. Pidge takes it with greedy hands, balancing the remote on one thigh and the bowl on the other, and they begin to dig in as the opening scene of  _ The Nightmare Before Christmas  _ unfolds in widescreen.

They make it through two movies and a long hour of battling out their frustrations on Rainbow Road before the bowl of candy between them is completely empty. It's Pidge's turn to restock their food hoard—a task she takes on with a surprising amount of thought, balancing sweets with salty pretzels and savory pizza rolls—and Keith has just stepped out of the restroom when the balcony begins to echo with footsteps.

He checks his cell. It's only just around midnight, so who..?

A silhouette stands crisp against the lamplight of the walkway below, defined by broad shoulders, beefy arms, and the ridiculous protrusion of a chef hat.

Pidge pauses at the counter, one hand poised over the candy bowl.

Lance shuffles around Hunk to pop open the balcony. His cheeks glitter as bright as the midnight stars, twinkling at his temples and across the exposed angles of his collarbones—and yet, underneath silvery eyeshadow and what has to be the coldest Halloween costume Keith's ever seen on anybody, he doesn't seem to be very enthused. He casts one look at the two of them in their rumpled pajamas and then at the TV, which is blaring the Wii Home tune at Saturday night club volume levels.

"Party wasn't all it cracked up to be," he says, shuffling all the way in. When Hunk slams the balcony shut behind them it immediately begins to fog up again, illuminating odd cartoon faces Pidge had drawn there earlier. "Wasn't feeling it."  
  
"I'm telling you man, I think it was those unlucky nachos from Big Sal's," Hunk admonishes, whipping off his chef hat to scratch his head. "They oozed bad vibes, you know?"

"Sure, Hunk." Lance is doing his best not to notice Keith in the hallway opening—and failing, because his eyes won't stop flitting over to him and back to Pidge again. She raises one eyebrow impatiently.

"So, what. You want to join our pow-wow four hours late? Did you bring anything? It's BYOC."  
  
"I live here," Lance deadpans. "Also, that blanket you're eating on top of is mine. Did you stain it?"

"Not yet."

"Good enough." He clears his throat. "I'm going to make tea. What kind do you want, Hunk?"

"Chai is fine." The bigger guy sighs, rubbing at his exposed hair. "I'm gonna go change into sweats before I sit on chocolate."  
  
Pidge's eyes flicker from Keith, frozen in the doorway, to Lance, focused unnaturally on filling the tea kettle. Her lips twitch.

"I'm gonna use the bathroom," she says, slipping out past Keith. She jabs him in the thigh on her way through and slips into the bathroom before he can protest.

Keith wavers on the spot. Not that arguing with Lance is his  _ favorite  _ thing to do, but—well. Pidge was right about them living on top of each other. As much as he'd like to think he's immune to Lance's noisy antics, they share enough of the same space that the silence isn't favorable in the slightest. Everything just feels.. wrong.

_ You could have fixed this sooner,  _ a voice snipes in his head. He doesn't like how much it sounds like Pidge.  _ Just admit it. You're afraid of getting close to him. _

But really, who wouldn't be? When you've grown used to holding only a couple of people in your hands, the sudden obtrusion of a new guest rattles you to your core. Keith has never actively sought out other people—never known quite how to, if he's being honest with himself—and the fact that Lance could punch into his bubble as if it's made of mere wet paper, misplacing the order Keith has taken a whole lifetime to become accustomed to, feels unnatural. He finds himself wanting to resist the change even as he's sucked into it, simply because there's no other experiences to fall back on, to hold to his chest and utilize as comfort.

College is all about finding yourself, finding other people, after all.

He steps into the living room and clears his throat.

"Lance—"  
  
"Keith—"

They both freeze. Lance looks up from the tea kettle, lips parted in surprise. Carefully, he places it back down onto its stand.

"You go first," he says.

Keith stares at the counter. Lance has pulled out two mugs for him and Hunk to use, but their dishes long have all become mixed up. The end result is an ensemble ringed in tea stains—one Baku Aquarium mug, one hand-painted sunflower mug, and two black-and-red Grand Canyon mugs, heavily chipped, that Lance is pouring his own tea into.

He takes one step forward and rests a hand on the counter, wetting his lips to speak.

"It's about earlier this week. I uh, wanted to say.."

His eyes drift from the ensemble of mugs to Lance's outfit. Their clothes are across the room from each other, but things inevitably mix when his roommate has all the organization skills of a chimpanzee. From where Keith stands, he can finally get a good look at Lance's mismatched black socks. He recognizes one from his own sock drawer—a sock he thought he'd lost weeks ago and long given up on matching to its mate.

"Earlier this week?" Lance prompts. "You got something to say to me, mullet?"

Keith wrinkles his nose. His eyes flicker back up to Lance's face. "Are you going to be an ass about this?"

"Don't you think I have a right to be?" Lance asks, pursing his lips. "I was just inviting you along—I figured you were going anyway with Shiro, it really wasn't a big deal—"  
  
"I don't  _ want _ you making plans for me—"  
  
"And you just  _ snapped  _ at me." His eyes go wide, the blue within them glassy, half-lit by the stove light. "What gives, man? I just—I." He swallows. "I worry about you being by yourself so much. Isn't it  _ lonely _ ?"

All of Keith's air rushes out of his lungs. They blink at each other, startled by how loud Lance's words echo in the kitchen. Lance himself is visibly heaving under his unbuttoned shirt; Keith can see how the glitter at his collarbones refracts light with every breath.

"I just don't get it, man. I thought we were friends, but then you turn around and act all weird and cold, like you don't want to try anymore." His lips curl down. "I mean—I'm used to it, whatever, but I wish you wouldn't just  _ snap  _ at me for asking a simple question. We had it fine at first and now you're all.." His eyes slide from Keith's up to the ceiling and back again. He shrugs with one shoulder. "..Weird."

"I'm weird," Keith echoes. He can't stop staring at how wet Lance's eyelashes appear to look, irises so blue it's as if a piece of the sky has split free. "You think.."  _ You think I'm lonely? You think I'm your friend? _

_ Why are you thinking of me at all? _

This is all wrong. They've both been going about it all wrong.

"Lance," he says. "You want to be friends?"

The look his roommate gives him might be laughable on a different day—lips curling down at the corners, nose scrunching up—if not for how the wetness in his eyes teeters a little closer to falling over the edge.

"You thought we weren't?" He asks. "If that's not what we are, then what  _ are  _ we?"

Keith thinks. They've been sharing space, sharing cups, sharing everything aside from the clothes right off their backs (although, according to Lance's socks, they were probably sharing that too). They say goodnight before they sleep, good morning when they wake up, they share tea and study tips and advice on general life—

_ Well, more like Lance gives lots of unsolicited dating tips, but really— _

"I don't know," he says slowly. "I thought you were using me as a pet project or something. A way to get to Allura." Lance stares in horror. "Is that really—you think I would stoop that low?"

"I mean—" Keith clears his throat. "I guess not. I just. Aren't you trying to get closer to her?"

"I can do that on my  _ own,  _ I don't need your mullet helping me along," Lance sniffs. His eyelashes flutter, clearing away some of the gloss. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Wasn't planning on it," he retorts, fingers curling around the counter's edge. The cloud hanging over his head begins to clear, dissipating as Lance's lips curve up shyly and he resumes pouring tea into four mugs.

"I made you chamomile lemon," he says, indicating the sunflower mug. "And Pidge gets black peach." 

"Thanks," he mutters, coming around the counter to grab them. Pidge, in her haste to leave the room, left half a Kit-Kat open on a pillow. As they arrange all four mugs on the table behind the blanket nest, Keith stops to cram the chocolate in his mouth.

"Oh my God." Lance's mouth drops open. "You did  _ not  _ just eat that the wrong way.  _ Keith _ ."

"Are we back to playing Wii games?" Pidge asks, emerging from the hallway at the perfect moment. Her smile betrays her casual stance; she makes eye contact with Keith and gives him a subtle thumbs up before taking her tea from him and inhaling deep.

"Pidge, are you seeing this?" Lance demands. Hunk trails out of the hallway last, swaddled in a soft sweatshirt and sweatpants with his chef hat. "Hunk, you'll never believe what I just saw Keith do—"

Keith settles into his snuggie nest and stares at the projected TV screen.  _ You were fine before and now you're all weird. _

_ Well,  _ he thinks bitterly.  _ When you're keeping someone else's double life a secret, things are bound to get strange. _

But it wasn't his secret to tell—could never be, feasibly, unless Lance somehow fell into Mothman's sphere of connections the way Keith had.

And so, for now, with an awful twist in his gut, he has to let it pass.

"Pass me the pizza rolls, Pidge." He jabs her thigh with his toe. “I’m starving.”

 

All the eyes are shut in his dream, save for one. The clearing, always stirred by white wings and an invisible wind, is utterly still. The lilies bloom once again, white stars facing the new moon as if to kiss it.

No one breathes for a moment.

"It's what you deserve," a voice breathes behind his left ear. The chords chafe painfully at his corporeality, rubbing him raw like a rope burn, syllables tumbling like stones over one another into his eardrums. Hot, putrid breath tickles his nose. "You were born for this."   
There's a glint of cold steel somewhere in his peripheral—

He sucks in a sharp breath—

Dark ink splatters across the lilies, dying them scarlet. Their petals begin to furl and unfurl, drinking in the liquid, and a low moan begins somewhere he can't see. Another movement and more splatters forward, a small geyser of inky blood that the earth sucks dry in an instant.

"Take it," the haggard voice snarls. "Take it, and become strong."  
  
The moaning picks up as a steady stream of blood flows over his toes to stain the earth around him. The air is still, heavy with the coppery scent of split skin and opened flesh, thick enough for his lungs to barely choke it down.

Only when the steel has cut out enough blood to wet the soil into a thick, soggy mess, does the moaning finally stop. All of the lilies gleam scarlet, bright and fresh.

The black eye in the back of his mind blinks once, twice, and then steadies—staring, clearly, for the very first time.

Staring at  _ him. _

**_fOUnd YOU._ **

Keith opens his eyes to the sound of his own screaming.

"What, what—" Hunk jerks up suddenly, hair askew. His eyes are puffy enough to nearly be swollen shut. "What's wrong?" Beside him, Pidge rolls over and groans.

Keith sits up fast enough for the world to swim. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. His shirt is soaked to his skin, clammy and cool to the touch; when he pats himself, he's ridiculously relieved to see the clear gleam of sweat.

"You okay, man?" Lance murmurs, voice hoarse. His eyes find Keith's in the living room darkness. His brow creases in worry. "This isn't the first time—"    
"I'm fine," he snaps.

Sucks in a deep breath. Sucks in another.

"Go back to sleep," he tells Lance softly. "Sorry to wake you."

He pockets his cell phone in his sweatshirt and escapes to the bathroom. His hands shake hard enough that it takes two tries to lock it.

Frantically, he opens his messaging app. Nothing.   
  
**Keith: Shiro?**

**Keith: you never answered my question**

He knows he won't reply until at least the morning, but it helps to send them anyway. Afterwards, he shuffles back to the blanket pile and folds himself into the sheets again. He's barely asleep when the sun begins to rise, dyeing the sky in morning pastels, and Hunk wakes beside him.

"Oh," he breathes, clearly having checked his phone. "Um."

"Wha's wrong this time?" Lance slurs on his other side. Keith squeezes his eyes shut tighter and prays for sleep to take him fast. It can't be any later than seven—too early for rational thought on a weekend.

"It's nothing, just—"

There's shuffling, a moment of silence, and then Lance's voice, husky and low with sleep, echoes out into the living room space.

_ "Two found dead in Garrison State Park. _ " He coughs. "That's only what, ten miles from here?"

"Yeah," Hunk breathes. "They were found a couple hours ago."

Keith's eyes snap open. Carefully, quietly, he rolls over and pulls out his phone again.

Still nothing.

He sucks in a slow, shaky breath, and begins to type.

**Keith: did u do it?  
** **  
** **Keith: Shiro  
** **  
** **Keith: i need to know**

It only takes a few seconds for his phone to vibrate again.   
**  
****Shiro: i dont know. i dont know. i dont know.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for being so patient! The past two weeks have been crazy for me, and I was desperate to restart my habit of posting chapters on Fridays. I might re-edit the last portion of his chapter later so if you see any mistakes please let me know!
> 
> Comments make my week! Leave one below or come say hi on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	11. Sweet Dreams Are Made Of Moths

On a regular Sunday morning, Keith rolls out of bed somewhere around ten. He puts on a sweatshirt and shuffles out into the kitchen to make himself instant oatmeal with a sliced banana; then, once Lance is done monopolizing the bathroom, he showers and figures out what homework he has to do that day. He'll drink five cups of tea, maybe six. It's habitual, ritual, never really deviating.  
  
November 1st is a Sunday and Keith spends the whole morning trying not to vomit.  
  
The hole in his stomach started slow, a tiny tear in the seam of his even thoughts; by the time ten rolls around there's less internal organs and more of a gaping chasm where his guts used to be, expanding so wide it threatens to split his insides apart. He can't make himself eat more than two bites of the pancakes Hunk makes, even though the guy puts bananas in them like he knows Keith likes.  
  
Shiro doesn't respond to the next text Keith sends, or the one after that. He could be sleeping, or eating, or somewhere in the middle of his recovery process—but Keith highly doubts it.   
  
Two people are dead. There is no room for sleeping peacefully.  
  
His hands tremble—not hard enough to make functioning impossible, but enough that he sees it when he brushes his teeth, when he holds his fork in his hand and stares at his cut-up food. Enough that tiny droplets shiver down his palms when he holds his hands up to his face in the shower. Enough that Pidge notices.   
But she doesn't say anything. For all the tiny ways that Keith methodically holds himself together, Pidge can see right through his patchwork blanket of self-management. She sees the shreds and fraying threads as his brain works overtime, and she knows. She drapes her own blanket around his shoulders to keep him warm.  
  
"You need to eat something," she reminds him, once Lance and Hunk have cleared their own dishes and retreated to their bedrooms to study. "Come on. Two more bites of your pancakes. Okay?"  
  
It's 10AM on a Sunday, and Keith's routine is crumbling apart.  
  
"I need to call him," he says finally, once half of his pancakes are gone and Pidge has Ziplocked the rest for later. "I need to know what he's thinking."  
  
"Are you sure that's right for right now?" Pidge asks. "If it's really what—what he thinks it is, then.." Her voice trails off as she pops the baggie in the fridge. "If I were him I wouldn't pick up."  
  
"I still have to try," Keith says.  
  
He calls Shiro. It goes straight to voicemail.  
  
The silence that comes with cleaning up a party would normally be welcome, but today, the open silence breeds dark, tangled thoughts. He gathers candy trash and sees torn lily petals in his cupped hands. He wipes spilled Coke off the tile and sees blood washing over his feet.  
  
He wonders, fleetingly, if there's a way to fall asleep and wake up again. To start the day over. Surely, if all of his dreams are so photorealistic, so vivid that he can feel, can taste, can hear and see, then can't this also be one?  
  
They push the sofa back into its usual position and align the table to match. Pidge wraps the projector's cords carefully, in slow, even loops of the hand that Keith knows she'd usually disregard. Her nose is all scrunched up, brow pushed down in obvious thought.   
  
When Keith returns from folding and closeting all of the strewn blankets he finds her sitting on the couch, staring out the window with her chin in her propped palm. Even in the late morning Pidge wears her NASA pajamas, her hair sticking out at odd angles. She'd never bothered to comb it down.  
  
"Do you really think he did it?" She murmurs softly.  
  
He leans against the arm of the couch and crosses his arms tight enough to stop the way his hands shake. His stomach, at this point, is reaching black hole-sized levels of open terror.  
  
"I don't know," he says honestly. "It isn't—There's no way to know."  
  
She nods slowly, her other hand rising to rub at her eyes. "I know. I just wish.."   
  
He stands, waiting for her to finish her thought, but the end never comes.  
  
Studying is an impossibility between refreshing news sites for more information on the deaths and Pidge's steady tapping of her finger against the window pane. She takes up residence on the secondary couch as if she lives there, blankets tucked under her feet to keep the heat in, her own cup of tea steaming on the ledge. Keith sits at the table and stares at a diagram of Hox gene movement without really seeing it.  
  
About lunchtime, Hunk emerges from his room to start making sandwiches. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the juxtaposition of Pidge's frantic typing and Keith's hands frozen in his lap. He steps forward to take Keith's mug.  
  
"Your tea is cold," he says, dumping the water. "Here. I'll make a new cup for you if you help me." There's no room for argument in his tone, nor in the firm way his hand presses at Keith's shoulder. He gives him a slow, wavering smile, and nods towards the kitchen counters. "Please? You don't have to touch the pickles if you don't want to."  
  
Keith shrugs and silently gets to his feet. It isn't as if he's been doing anything for the last hour anyway.  
  
They work in tandem, with Keith sliding mayo and mustard onto bread and passing it to Hunk to doctor up. His housemates hands work with astounding dexterity, plucking lunch meat from the package and layering it with lettuce, cut tomato, pickles, and cheese. He beckons for Keith to get out the plates so they can divvy them up, and as Keith does so, begins to cut the sandwiches into particular divisions.  
  
"Here. Eat," he says, pressing triangle slices into Keith's hands. "You didn't get enough for breakfast."  
  
"I'm fine," Keith protests, "It's not—I'm not hungry."  
  
"Not right now you aren't," he agrees. "But you should be." He sets aside two rectangle slices on another plate. "Is something on your mind? Your stomach typically tightens when you're stressed, you know."  
  
Pidge's hands slow over her keyboard from across the room. She looks up at them with a carefully blank expression, glasses askew. "Is one of those for me?"  
  
"Yeah. You can take the fourth plate to Lance." Hunk slides the plates to her and turns back to Keith. "If you ever need to talk about anything, I'm here, remember? I mean, you have Pidge, but." He shrugs and wipes his hands on a teatowel. "If it's bad enough to stop you from eating, it's bad, you know? If you don't eat, how are you supposed to do anything else?"  
  
Keith chews his bottom lip. The sandwich in his hands is a hefty thing, fat enough that he'd have to squeeze his hands around it to cram a bite in his mouth. He suspects, comparing the folds of meat in his sandwich to Pidge's plate, that Hunk added extra lunch meat for him. A tiny pang goes through his chest.   
  
He doesn't know what to feel. On one hand he sees the cryptid he used to know—red eyes gleaming in the night, a numbness to his limbs as the scent of his blood drew all attention—and he carries a thick, ugly weight in his chest at the idea of that focus on another human being. Mothman may not know his own strength but he _ is _ a creature that, by design, was attracted in some degree to blood. Was there a chance he was hungry enough to search for it actively?  
  
Not to mention that Shiro didn't even know what being Mothman was like past vague impressions of the night. For all any of them knew, Mothman could be feasting here and there without killing anyone, like a vampire bat. Vampire moth?  
  
But even though Mothman was capable of attacking humans, would he? Keith's hands curl tightly around the sandwich plate.  
  
__ You are beautiful.  
  
He doesn't know.   
  
"It's Shiro," he mumbles after a long moment. "I'm.. worried about him."  
  
Hunk doesn't look up from where he washes the kitchen knives. "How come?"  
  
"It's complicated."  
  
Hunk hums softly. "It would have to be, to make you this upset."

Keith trails one thumb over the hanging crust of his sandwich. Tiny bits crumble into his hand and drift to the floor, clinging to his cotton socks.

"I just want him to be happy with himself," he whispers. "But nothing is going the way it should."  
  
Hunk rinses the knives of clinging suds and slides a cloth over the blades, wiping them dry in smooth, sure motions. He lays them out on the counter as he dries, and then, one by one, places them back where they belong. All that's left behind is their plated sandwiches, resting on a surface cleaner than when they started.

"I don't know much about Shiro," Hunk admits. "Only what I've seen of him in public, or when he drops you off after you're both studying, but.."   
  
His hands, gently calloused but soft from hand lotion Lance distributes like candy, creep across the countertop until one rests just before Keith's. A tiny space remains between their fingertips, just close enough that Keith can feel the whisper of Hunk's body heat reaching to comfort him the way he knows he yearns to.

"He's a good person, I think. One with a strong moral compass. Right?"

_ He doesn't know how good he is,  _ Keith thinks bitterly.  _ I only wish he knew.  _ He nods.

"Then..." Hunk's fingers slide back, slipping over the freshly-cleaned surface. "I'm only speaking from my own experience, but I know what it's like to deal with people like that." His lips turn up, eyes softening around the corners. "It's okay for them to grow into liking themselves. That's what we're here for, you know? To cheer them on."  
  
Keith stares at him. Hunk smiles back tentatively.

From a distance, it's as good advice as anything Hunk's ever given him. He  _ knows  _ self-love can start from other people—he sees it in Pidge, in himself too, if he's being honest.   
  
_ But how do you support someone who thinks they’ve murdered _ _ —that  _ _ might have actually killed people? _

He blinks, tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. He takes his sandwich and stares at it on the plate.

"I guess you're right. Thanks, Hunk."

"Anytime," Hunk says. "I know it might not be what you needed to hear, but it's what I can give. We're all here for you, you know."

_ It isn't me who needs the support right now.  _ "I know. Thanks."

.

 

**Keith: im coming by with food at 2**

**Keith: u dont have to be awake, ill just leave it for u at the door**

 

Maybe this wasn't what Hunk meant when he talked about support, but it's all Keith can do. He checks the sack lunch for the umpteenth time, taking stock of the turkey sandwich he constructed to mimic Hunk’s, the baggie of cereal, the mixed fruit in a cup. He even took one of Lance's milk boxes.

There's so much he wants to grapple with—his dreams, the whispering in the night, the future he has both alone and with Shiro, who can’t possibly live a regular life when he shares his body with a cryptid spirit—

But in a world of cryptic dreams and midnight murders, he’s just a single man.

He hates it, but it isn't going to stop him from sticking by Shiro's side; if anything, he feels a stronger sense of defiance in the face of what the world's been throwing at him. Angrier, ready to defend Shiro from prying eyes or anyone that doubts him.

Because he's decided. Even if Shiro believes that Mothman was the killer—even if he was the cause of their deaths, though the idea of him going so far seems almost impossible—Keith isn't going to abandon him. He and Mothman are two separate beings inhabiting the same space, after all.

The driveway to Shiro's shared home is cluttered with parked cars and locked bikes. As he walks up the sidewalk, two girls stumble out of the house in big sweatshirts and glittery tights. They pass him without casting a second glance, eye makeup smudged and hair rippling in messy waves.

_ The leftovers of the party,  _ he realizes. He'd forgotten that it was only last night.

He rings the doorbell and takes in the bedraggled Halloween decorations strewn out onto the sidewalk—soggy cobwebs and a sad-looking pumpkin with a crooked smile, a plaster spider ring snapped in two and kicked towards the bushes lining the side of the house. Overhead, a cluster of crows take flight and caw, hacking ugly noises into the cool, cloudy silence of Sunday.

He's just thinking of leaving the bag on the porch when the door finally cracks open. A buff guy he vaguely recognizes from the September party squints out at him, dressed in a white tank and boxers. The house's interior is pitch-black behind him.

"'Sup?" He slurs. He runs one hand over his stubble and eyes Keith's baggie, his Garrison sweatshirt and battered jeans. "Uhh.. You here for somebody?"

"Shiro." Keith frowns. "Is he around?"

"Yeah, think so. Rolled in late last night." The guy's eyes trail over Keith for a moment longer. "Come in I guess."

They hug the living room wall to avoid the majority of the mess. Most of the blinds in the house are drawn, but Keith can make out the shape of someone asleep on one of the couches, their legs dangling over the side. Cups and other bits of trash cover every surface; he sucks in a quiet breath and tastes leftover sweat and musk.

Shiro's roommate comes to a stop before his door. He casts Keith one curious look and knocks twice on the door, just loud enough to disturb the heavy lull hanging over everything.

"You've got somebody," he calls. "Looks like he brought you food, too. Shit." He blinks. "What's your name again?"

"Keith." 

"I'm letting Keith chill," the guy says. He steps back, rubbing one hand over his stomach, and shrugs. "Ok. If you need anything.." His arms dangle loosely at his sides. "Uh. Ask somebody hanging around. I'm gonna make some cereal." He drifts away, leaving Keith in the quiet.

Keith's hands trail from his side closer to the doorknob. It wouldn't be right to just bust in—for all he knows Shiro is still sleeping—but he's gotten this far. He can't just leave now, can he?

He knocks on the door a little harder. "Shiro? You in there?"

Standing here in the darkness, he can't help but wonder if he's overstepped some invisible line between the two of them; are they far along enough that he can bust into Shiro's space like this? Maybe Shiro wants to be alone—

_ You've gotten this far. You have to commit. He needs  _ somebody— _ and it doesn't look like anyone here will be a huge help. _

He knocks a third time. "Shiro, you need to eat—" 

The door swings open and everything in his mouth tangles up in a big, clunky wad on his tongue. Shiro's fingers pinch tight around the edge of the wood, knuckles scabbed and scratched.

He looks—not that Keith expected him to look great in any capacity, but— 

"Have you slept yet?" He asks carefully. Shiro wordlessly steps aside and ushers him in before shutting the door. "Shiro?"

Shiro takes him in full-body, eyes sweeping from Keith's windswept hair to the bag in his hands, down to his grubby sneakers with alien laces Pidge gifted last Christmas. He sucks in the slowest of quiet, shaky breaths, and exhales in a rush. His hands, fisted tightly in his sweats, let go and begin to tremble.

"Shiro," Keith breathes. He drops the sack lunch at the desk and rushes forward to meet him at the edge of the bed. "Breathe."

The last time he was in here, everything had been relatively clean; there was no strewn dirty clothes across the floor, no papers tumbling onto the desk chair, no odd stains across Shiro's pillows, the sheets twisted until they're impossible to tug up over one's body. Keith shoves the scrunched fabric away until it hits the floor, making space for himself beside Shiro.

The man sits at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, palms rubbing over the gaunt, unshaven planes of his face. His chest rises and falls fast enough to send Keith's own pulse racing, his stomach flopping about like flotsam.

"Breathe with me," he says firmly, one hand coming up to Shiro's shoulder and squeezing. The muscles jump under his skin but he doesn't pull away. "Come on. Breathe in deep."  
  
_ In. _

_ Out. _

_ In. _

_ Out. _

They sit in utter silence save for the rasp of Shiro's breathing, waiting as his lungs fill and empty, over and over, until the quiet between them expands to fill everything that clamored to take its place.

"You think you did it." It isn't a question.

Shiro finally lifts his hands from his face. His cheeks, already ruddy and unnaturally colored, are now blotchy and sticky with drying tears. He rubs one fist in his eye and peers at Keith with the other, his mouth turned down hard enough to weigh his whole posture.

"Who else could have?" He whispers. His blood-shot eyes seek out Keith's own in the darkness. "With the evidence that they've published—"

"It hasn't been so long," he argues. He slides his palm from Shiro's shoulder over the expanse of his back, resting between his shoulder blades. He clears his throat and speaks softer. "Nothing's conclusive. And I know you didn't do it."  
  
"Says who? Keith, their bodies were  _ ripped apart _ —"  
  
"Could have been a wild animal," he says firmly. "And even if it was you, it wasn't  _ you.  _ It was—" He swallows. "You're the one who told me that you're two different people, and now you're going to take his guilt on your own? Which is it?"

"This is  _ my  _ body," Shiro growls. He lifts his head enough to fix Keith with a glare, though he doesn't jerk away from their point of contact. "Even if I'm not in control, everything that happens to it makes me partially responsible. I'm an accomplice."  
  
"You don't  _ see  _ anything, Shiro, you don't even know—"  
  
"I can feel him." His eyes bore into Keith's, twin points of black in the shadows of his face.

Keith can feel his insides writhing faster like a dying fish that refuses to accept its end, flopping and tossing until he tastes acid in the back of his throat. He coughs and tastes the acridity of it on his tongue, poisoning him from the inside out.

"I felt it," Shiro whispers, his voice barely audible. "I felt him—do something. I don't know exactly what it was, but I—" He chokes, shaking his head. "The second I woke up I knew to check the news. I already know who it was, Keith. And it was me."

"It was  _ him _ ," Keith corrects, but his heart sinks like a lead weight all the way to the bottom of his toes.

They lapse into a silence after that. Shiro lays down on his back, hands folded in his lap, and stares at the ceiling. Keith slips off the bed to remove his shoes and then begins the slow, steady process of untangling the sheets. Everything carries that same musky smell—redwoods and warm earth—and he sucks in tiny breaths of it as his hands methodically work over knots and folds.

Once the blankets are all sorted out, Keith heaves them back up onto the bed and slides up the side, letting the blankets fall over their legs as he goes. Shiro doesn't protest but lays carefully still until Keith has the blanket brought up to their chests, lying on his side to get a good look at the other man's face.

"Is this okay?" He asks quietly. Shiro nods, hands breaking apart so he can roll to his left.

It isn't too often that Keith gets a good look at Shiro's face—between their lectures together and the quiet meetings at the clearing, the whole world spins too fast, it feels like—but any opportunity lost is made in spades, tiny pockets of time like this one.

Inflections of the new moon's change are everywhere on him. His eyes sport extra lines and shadows like he's gone days without rest and stood in the sun; his lips are chapped. A fresh scratch marks one cheekbone and he follows the line of it with his eyes from where it begins all the way towards Shiro's mouth.

It's odd, the way they've progressed. In the span of two months Keith has learned Shiro's darkest secrets, seen him undergo insurmountable pain and conflict. He's grown to share affections for a creature of myths and nightmares, grown to believe in the monsters hiding in the closet. He has become, in his own way, a steadfast rock for Shiro to cling to.

_ And yet— _

"What are you thinking about?" Shiro breathes. The exhaustion in his voice chafes at Keith's heart.

Keith looks up into Shiro's eyes. Even bloodshot and lacking sleep, even in the wake of the horrors his body committed beyond his brain's control, Shiro is still the man Keith saw on that first day. He's still  _ him. _

"Nothing," he croaks. He leans in and presses his lips to Shiro's forehead, not daring voice his thoughts. "You can take a nap if you want. I'll still be here when you wake up."  
  
"You don't have to—"  
  
"But I will," Keith says. "Come on. You need to sleep."  
  
Shiro's mouth pinches in protest, but he knows better than to argue. He huffs out a soft breath that tickles at Keith's cheeks, warming over their skin, and closes his eyes.

In the darkness, his hand slides through the sheets until it finds Keith's.

He clings tight enough to make his knuckles ache. Tight enough that Keith can feel his heartbeat hammering through his veins.

And then, as the minutes tick by, it beats slowly, slower, slow into sleep.

.

The moment he opens his eyes he knows something is wrong.

The sky here is not the one he sees when he falls asleep, nor the one that favors haunting his dreams. There aren't any stars at all—expanses of ink splatter freely from the world above, below, on either sides, staining and smearing exposed skin. He turns his arms over and stares at the black and purple marks that spread over his skin in the shape of handprints, fingers, nail crescents.

And yet, for the darkness he feels, there are no eyes here. He is alone, adrift in solitude, awash on a sea made of nothing at all.

Until he isn't.

The brush against his mind is one he's grown used to—not in the perverse sense of those white wings that cut up his insides, but a familiar beast that brushes his hair back from his forehead, that tickles at his brain with compliments and soft, shy phrases.

_ It's you,  _ he thinks, and the darkness slides against his skin in sweet, hesitant trails.

But that's  _ wrong,  _ he shouldn't, he can't—

_ After all that you've done, how can you come back like this? _

He jerks his arms free from the ink and tucks his arms tightly around himself. The stains remain, after-images of staring into the sun that have imprinted themselves on his flesh. The darkness rescinds from where he's torn himself away, curling in on itself like rolling fog.

_ How could you do this to him? _

Here in the dark where Shiro can't see, the tears leak for the first time. He's ashamed of crying—

It isn't him that should be in tears, he's not  _ allowed  _ to cry for this, this  _ monster _ —

_ What is  _ wrong  _ with you? _

The darkness trembles, shivering as it splatters this way and that against the solid black walls they cannot see. He can feel him, distressed, disturbed, sloshing like a cup too full of water, pouring and pouring and pouring over.

**_wrong._ **

How can it be, how can he be wrong,  _ we know so stop pretending alright, we know— _

**_You Are WrOGN._ **

He's familiar with the brush of another's presence against his own exposed thoughts, used to the intrusion like being suddenly dipped in warm water, but it does nothing to prepare him for something more, A Thing That Becomes Him in the darkness, overtaking his own consciousness entirely.

The world is black. He has no body any longer, not even an invisibility, but has submerged completely in that warmth, melding with the oncoming ink until it fills him inside out.

And then he  _ sees. _

The clearing almost resembles the one they meet in. Beds of clover glint with dew; he can’t turn fully but recognizes thick sequoias mixing in with the redwoods he's come to love. The moon, suspended just over the treetops, is nothing but a black spot in the sky.

When he walks, his gaze concentrates on minutiae; he sees the tiny veins on leaves, sees bugs skittering over the earth, sees individual needles dropping from the trees as they shudder.

Above the onslaught of imagery, of colors that shouldn't exist in open midnight under a new moon, the most prominent sense of all is the  _ smell. _

It cakes on top dying leaves, on top of wet grass and the headache-inducing richness of redwood bark. It slathers everything in grime, twisting in his gut like a knife as much as his mouth begins to water.

It smells like death and decay, but it smells delicious.

He follows the scent further into the clearing, past where the beds of clover halt and dead logs are methodically placed. There, lying side by side as if they might be sleeping, is the source of everything.

Flies scatter when he kneels, black fingers trailing over pale flesh. Beyond the hollows of their eyes, mouths frozen open in twin expressions of agony, they have already become someone else's meal.

The job is improper. Holes expose innards to the air, one body’s intestines trailing into the wet soil. Their hearts are torn free and missing, leaving behind fresh cavities with collapsed lungs. Rib cages are cracked apart like one would split the peel off of an orange, pulled outwards to expose the gleaming meat within. 

They've hardly been picked clean.

A waste of meat. He wants it fresh, hot down his throat, and this has already been sitting for a couple hours. He feels the hunger clawing at his stomach like needles, wrenching hands that churn and grasp for something to rip to pieces. He hardly gets to eat, after all.

But this meal won't be his.

He stands, and with one mournful shuffle of his wings, takes flight into the darkness.

**_see Me,_ ** his voice echoes. It presses in at all sides, close enough to touch, to kiss, to wrap into his hands and split to pieces.  **_dO yOU SEe?_ **

The sky full of stars stretches forever, thinner and thinner, until every star is a blur that has become one with the night. He blinks but does not see any longer.

_ I see _ , he thinks.  _ I see. _

.

Opening one's eyes to more darkness is a disorienting experience—he blinks once, twice, before he realizes his body is tangible, his thoughts separate from that dark spirit's. He is himself again.

Shiro's face is slack against the pillow in front of him, lips gently parted. As Keith watches, a furrow in his brow twitches before smoothing out into even skin. He sighs, a soft, gentle breath, filling the air between their lips.

Keith licks his lips. He takes in the soft curves of Shiro's eyelashes, the angle of his jaw, the plushness of his bottom lip.

He sits up before the recesses of his brain fool him into doing something stupid. Shiro needs to sleep, and their relationship, for all of its tangles and brambles that snare them both together, is new. So, so new.

His phone lies abandoned in his shoes at the foot of his bed. The tiny LED blinks rapidly—a text message.

**Pidgey: just got another email from Shay**

**Pidgey: she says her grandma has some news we might want to hear in person**

Keith casts a glance at Shiro. He's utterly still in sleep, only the faintest rise and fall of his chest any indication that he's alive. The sack lunch on the desk remains rolled up and untouched.

**Keith: when does she want to meet? im busy rn**

**Pidgey: figured u would be. we can go next weekend or smth**

**Pidgey: how is he?**

**Keith: he's asleep**

**Pidgey: not what i was asking but ok.**

**Pidgey: ..im glad ur there with him**

He sucks in a soft breath and sighs. It's not fair—Shiro looks utterly worn even in sleep, like he could rest for a whole extra day. Keith wishes that he could take everything that's weighing him down, if only for a little while. Just a few extra hours so he can rest.

But Mothman won't wait that long, and they need to have a talk face-to-face anyway.

**Keith: me too. ill see u in a couple hours**

**Pidgey: we’ll be waiting**

.

The drive back towards campus is solemn, silent. Rush hour traffic clutters the streets of their city, filling bus stops with commuting students, clogging up the roads with bumper-to-bumper traffic. And yet, amidst the sluggish pace of the city below, the sun continues in its descent, heedless of time.

Keith slouches in his seat enough to hide his face half below the dashboard. The seat heater would normally be enough to send him into a sound sleep, but all it does now is prickle heat at the nape of his neck, seeping down into the back of his shirt. He's almost sweaty.

Shiro looks brighter after a nap, some of the color returning to his face. His eyelids and lips are somewhat swollen, but at least Keith knows his stomach is full; awakening at the loss of Keith's warmth from the bed, he'd sat up and eaten everything in the bag at once before going into the kitchen to grab more snacks for them to share.

Keith plucks a few pieces of Chex Mix out of the center console and crunches them down. The salt, after a whole morning of choking down everything without tasting it, tingles deliciously across his tongue. He watches as the stoplight in front of them changes to green, yellow, red once more without them crossing.

Dreams have always been an enigmatic subject. The human brain is capable of making spectacular stories, turning impossibilities into reality by using fragments of other things he's seen and forgotten. Keith knows better than to believe in something as shifty as his own imagination—or at least he did. Now, he isn't so sure.

_ Does it count as a dream if the memory wasn't mine? _

He doesn't know what sharing a brain would be like; the best he has to go off of is Shiro's recollections, vague descriptions of emotions as if he's listening in from another room. There shouldn't be any contact beyond that, nothing like the deep, whole-body takeover he'd experienced when he closed his eyes.

It was one thing to feel another's emotions brushing your brain. It was another entirely to  _ become  _ them.

He rubs his hands over his arms, but it does nothing to quell the chill that's suddenly risen from his gut.

"Shiro?" An ambulance careens past them with its sirens blaring, forcing two lanes of traffic to pull into the bike lane. "When you feel Mothman—do you have to be..  _ away _ to know what he's thinking?" 

Shiro's fingers tap over the steering wheel. He cocks his head in thought, brow furrowing.

"I don't think so? There are times where I can feel him in the back of my mind—they don't happen too often, though." He pauses. "Or like, when it's not the new moon, sometimes I feel him in my sleep. But for that, I have to remember what I dreamed about when I wake up." 

"In your sleep," Keith echoes softly. "I see. Okay." 

Shiro glances at him and frowns. "Why? Is something wrong?"

_ see Me. _

"No," he murmurs, staring out the window. "Just—I've been thinking about some weird things, lately."

"You have to tell him to stop if he's bothering you." Shiro's expression darkens. "He's a monster, Keith. He doesn't know any better—doesn't have a capacity to know right from wrong."

"It's fine," he insists, "but that is what I want to talk to you about. Have you..spoken to him? Since you woke up?"

Shiro's mouth flattens out into a thin line. "No." 

"I didn't think so," Keith murmurs. "Maybe that's why he came to me instead." 

" _ You _ ? Keith, you have to tell him to leave you alone—" 

"I didn't need to." He sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. The darkness had been inky, smattering and smearing over his skin, but it never reached farther than he let it. He had never been  _ afraid.  _ "He knew better than to touch me. And that's the thing—Shiro, he isn't the one who killed those people." 

"What are you talking about? Did he just come right out and tell you? He can barely string three words together." 

"Well, not quite." Keith bites his lip. "He sort of just..  _ shared  _ his brain with me. So I could see what he remembered."

"He shared his brain." Shiro's eyes are wide enough to nearly fall out of his head; his fingers, already tight around the steering wheel, tighten enough to turn his knuckles white. "He shared his brain with  _ you _ ." 

"That isn't what's important here," he says impatiently. "Shiro, I saw what he did last night. It wasn't him—he showed up and the bodies were already like that.  _ He didn't kill those people. _ " 

"But how do you know?" Shiro presses. His hands wring back and forth over the plastic, rubbing hard enough for the material to protest. "He could have—have shown you what happened after he killed them, or something." 

"I don't think so." Keith blinks at the dashboard. "He was actually sort of disgusted. Whatever tore into those people didn't eat them or anything. Just sort of.." His fingers trail over grooves along the door, one thumb sliding over the door handle. ".. _ Played _ . Mothman doesn't work like that, I think. Or at least he doesn't eat leftovers." His bottom lip curls. 

"But if it wasn't him, then what could have done it?" Shiro shakes his head. "The way the news described it, they'd been mauled. There aren't any animals in the area that could  _ do _ that kind of damage, much less attack two people at once." 

"I don't know," Keith admits. "He didn't think that far. But he wanted you to know that it wasn't him."

_ see Me. _

For a long moment it looks like Shiro is going to argue—but then he sighs, all the rigidity of his shoulders bleeding away, leaving him sagging over the steering wheel. They pull up into the next right-hand turn and he tugs one hand through his forelock, combing the strands free. He looks exhausted.

"I guess I won't have a chance to ask until this is all over," he says. "I trust you, Keith, don't get me wrong—it's him that I'm worried about." 

"I understand," Keith says, "but if you're going to trust me on this, then you have to be willing to trust him too. There's nobody else he can speak to." 

"That we know of," Shiro says darkly, but he doesn't disagree. He sighs again, quieter, and makes the turn up the road to campus base. "But if that's what it takes to figure this out then I'll do it."

"It wasn't you," Keith repeats. He slides one hand off his lap and trails it up to Shiro's shoulder, squeezing over the jacket there. "It wasn't either of you." 

"I know," Shiro whispers. "And I'm glad. You have no idea." 

"But?" Keith asks, sensing a turn.

"But." Shiro makes one last turn and pulls into the northern remote parking lot. "It means something else out there  _ did. _ "

 

They find the Holt siblings waiting on a log at the edge of the clearing, their heads tucked in together in conversation. Keith can't help but wince when the two look up; Pidge's expression is blank, evenly kept, while Matt openly displays his anxieties in the twist of his mouth. Their eyes land on Shiro immediately but neither gets up to say anything.

"You've already heard the news," Shiro says, coming to a stop a few feet away. Matt grimaces and pockets his hands, his head tilted to eyeball the growing sliver of the moon. "We've got more you need to hear, if you can believe it."  
  
"The news won't shut up about the gory details," Pidge says grimly. "I've seen them re-roll the same footage all day. It's a mess—the park's closed for the next week so they can assess damages and decide how to guarantee people's safety."

Keith's lip curls. "They can do what they like, but it isn't going to fix anything."  
  
"Don't we know it. You can't keep out what flies in—"  
  
"That's not what I meant." Keith pauses, looking back at Shiro. He nods. "Mothman didn't do it."  
  
Matt's eyes snap back to the two of them, eyebrows coming together. "He didn't? How do you know?"

Keith hugs his arms around his torso. "Because he told me."

Explaining is surprisingly easy; the Holts, who have felt Mothman's thoughts brush their own, take the new concept of dream-sharing in stride. It makes sense, after all—what are shared dreams but thoughts brushing in sleep?

"Seeing his memories," Pidge breathes. Her eyes are huge in the dark. "I can't even imagine what that would be like."  
  
Keith presses his lips together. He can still see the ink stains on his forearms when he closes his eyes—still believes, partly, that when he goes to sleep tonight, the dreams will happen again.

But there's only one way to find out.

"It's almost time," Shiro says. "If you're going to talk to him directly, now's your chance."  
  
"Do you think he'll be able to answer all of our questions?" Pidge frowns. "He's not the most articulate monster I've spoken to."  
  
"He's all we've got," Shiro replies. "Make the most of it."  
  
This time, the shift from one skin to another carries less pain than usual—Keith watches with guarded eyes as the ink bleeds from Shiro's skin, encasing him in liquid shadows that harden and swell. No sound escapes from his mouth; his lips part in a silent scream, his eyes visibly water with pain, but the transformation passes swiftly.   
  
Mothman's wings unfurl and Keith remembers his other dreams, the ones encased in red and white, wet with blood that isn't his own. The way his wings shuffle and rest at the shoulder blades echoes those visions—but Mothman's wings are only black, ringed by a thin, white border.

Keith wonders if the dreams would make more sense the other way around, shared backwards with Mothman. Is that even possible? Would he know what they meant?

As if sensing his thoughts, Mothman's eyes blink open and fix directly on Keith. He doesn't move from where he's turned but stands stock-still under the moon, a soft wind ruffling the scarlet hair on his head. They size each other up in silence.

_ You already know what I'm going to ask,  _ Keith thinks, but he makes himself step forward anyway.

"I didn't bring anything for you this time," he says aloud. "Sorry."

Mothman buzzes in disappointment, shoulders scrunching up and down. The way his hands rest on his hips almost seems to say _ Eh, what are you gonna do? _

"You know what I want," he tells the cryptid. "You remember the dreams too, don't you?" Mothman buzzes louder, wingtips twitching at his sides. "We need to know more, so—if you have any information you're not telling us, we need to hear it. Now." 

The trees kick about in the wind and scatter needles over the ground. A cloud passes over the waxing moon, and for a moment, Keith thinks that Mothman won't say anything at all. There's nothing in the darkness but his own thoughts.

And then, suddenly, there is another sharing his headspace.

**_ONe morE._ **

"Of what?" Pidge asks, coming to stand next to Keith. The cryptid absolutely towers over her but shrinks back at her voice, the sudden approach of one he's only encountered in passing moments before. Bulbous black eyes swivel from Keith to Pidge and back again.

**_HE is.. TH E MOoN._ **

"He is the moon," Keith repeats. "What does that mean?"

But whatever strength Mothman possesses flees him—his eyes focus and unfocus, shifting to stare in every direction. His wings move at the shoulder joint as if he's ready to fly free.

Whatever they want from him, this is as much as they're going to get.

Mothman's eyes focus and linger on Keith; one of his hands twitches at his side, the fingers curling and uncurling into a fist. His whole body sags under the weight of Keith's gaze, furling in on itself like a flower bud. He doesn't speak, but he also doesn't have to—they know each other enough now to read body language.

_ I wish you could give me more. _

_ I'm sorry. _

The moon is a gleaming sliver in the sky. Mothman's wings stretch wide, wide enough for Keith to see every vein, and he takes flight towards the light.

They watch him fly up and up until he's merely a black spot melding in with the sky. Pidge lets out a soft breath, her exhalations curling in the cold like smoke.

"So much for getting any news out of him." 

"I did my best." Keith turns and looks her up and down; though it's been at least ten hours since they saw each other, she still wears her pajama bottoms and a thick sweatshirt. "Did you stay at my house all day?"

"Wasn't in the mood to sit alone," she admits. "Hunk gave me lunch, after all. He's pretty cool."

"Hmm." He supposes it's easier that way, having all of the people he cares about clumped together. There's less of a chance for anything to—what? Maul them to pieces?

_ The news says it was a wild animal but all it did was rip out their hearts. What animal does that? _

Keith remembers the thirst Mothman had shared, his curiosity and hunger overlapping at the scent of blood. He remembers how he'd longed for trace heat in those corpses and only found cold, dead flesh.

He shudders.

"Come on," Matt says. "I'll walk you two back to campus, and then you should grab some food, alright? I know you haven't eaten, Pidge." 

"I've been busy," she mutters, "what with Shay emailing me about  _ shadows  _ and then people suddenly dying like they've been attacked by beasts. It kind of makes eating a secondary priority." 

"Well I'm telling you to make it a first," he chides, cuffing her at the back of the head. He pauses, looking to Keith. "You rest too, alright? Whatever this is—you two can't solve it by staying up all night, starving yourselves." 

"Wouldn't dream of it," Keith murmurs.  _ Quite the opposite. _

And yet, when he finally gets home and tucks himself into bed, he can't sleep. He stares at the ceiling for over an hour, tossing and turning, desperate to get comfortable.

_ Probably because of my nap earlier,  _ he realizes. He curses himself for falling asleep so easily then—but the way Shiro had melted into the sheets was so quick, so desperate for good rest after the morning they'd both had.. He can't regret  _ everything. _

He knows, intrinsically, that a six-foot cryptid can probably take care of themselves. Especially one with four arms and an exoskeleton that feels like solid steel. Mothman's taken care of himself for years in the backwoods of Garrison University without anyone ever finding him.

But has there ever been another animal of the same strength? Keith doesn't know—and he's afraid to find out what might happen if they meet Mothman.

**_ONe morE._ **

_ One more of what?  _ He lays there and wracks his brain for as long as he can keep his eyes open.  _ One more..? _

He falls asleep without meaning to, but no spirit ever emerges to greet him. His sleep is deep, dark, empty as the new moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know y'all might be sick of dreamsharing from my other fics but _man_ i am such a hoe for that shit..  
>  as always, leave a comment below! your words really lift me up when im not sure if i want to write for the day (and in several cases, your theories have even altered the story's course!) also if you see any errors please lmk
> 
> come discuss hot monster men with me on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	12. Moth For Your Thoughts

Sleep, dreamless as it is, passes in jumps and starts, leaving odd afterimages and a deep-seated dissatisfaction with everything transposed. Keith wakes up on Monday morning to soft rainfall pattering over redwood needles, slicking down dusty rooftops, washing red-brown earth into old gutters with soupy leaf debris. The world, twisted as it is under the midnight eye, still remembers how to bathe itself into evenness again.

When he bundles himself up and steps out into the mist, he's struck by the undeniable weight of everything that shelves itself higher and higher upon his back. Low shelves bear his grades, his homework, his section assignments and expectations; stacked even higher up, precariously close to the ceiling, creaking boards threaten to slosh over full bowls of inky secrets that aren't his to share, homicidal residues on fraying clothes of corpses, a guilt he can't scrub into the shower drain though he tries and tries, sliding his hands over his bare skin until it gleams pink under fluorescent lights.

He should be no stranger to the balancing act—it's been weeks, now, since Shiro exposed himself under the moon, since the dreams started, since he shook his hand in that tiny classroom, their bodies too close, while other students carried on around them, unaware of the minuscule shift in the righteousness of things. He should be growing strong, growing _used_ to this.

But folding over the memories of dead bodies, the knowledge that another beast may roam these forests he's grown to call home, stealing his solace right out from under him—well.

Does anyone ever grow used to death?

The trip to his first lecture bears scant traces of human life; he walks the ten-minute path from his apartment complex down through the forest, rain boots squishing over wet leaves and slick gravel, and doesn't see another soul. The lampposts, unable to detect the new morning under their thick raincovers, still glow yellow through the fog, and as Keith passes underneath one, he sees a deer scamper into the undergrowth on his left.

At least the forest is still alive, though something ugly and dying is coming to house itself within it.

When he cracks open the lecture hall doors he isn't surprised to find Shiro already in the front row, his backpack slung into the seat next to him. A huge coffee thermos steams visibly in his hand, and as Keith watches, he tips it back for a long, hefty chug.

"Doesn't that burn your tongue?" He raises an eyebrow, nudging Shiro's backpack aside. The aisles are barely wide enough for both their backpacks and their legs; as he sits, making himself comfortable, he tucks his things away where wet sneakers won't stamp all over them.

"I'm used to it," Shiro grunts. "When you’re dying, you do what you have to."  
  
Keith rifles through school emails on his phone. Apparently they have another midterm next Monday, two weeks before their Thanksgiving holiday. He thumbs over the digital date, frowning. He hadn't even considered what to do for his first holiday away from home—is there enough time to visit his family? How would he even get there? Does he have enough money to fly?

"Midterm's next week," he reminds Shiro, tucking his cell away. The man grunts and takes another long, mournful swig of his coffee.

The fact that they can spend a whole weekend speaking to cryptid spirits and then roll in Monday morning to general biology is almost laughable. He's not the one being possessed, but it still feels like he's turning into two separate beings, divided between night and day.

"Enrollment for next quarter is coming soon," the professor announces. "I hope you all will consider taking microbiology, one of the first general upper-division courses for the MCD major, and also.."  
  
_Enrollment._ Keith stifles an internal groan. He'd forgotten about that, too.

They dive into body axes and cell specialization at a brisk pace, going over the basics for the first part of lecture. Though he's read all the material, Keith still finds himself having to fight to focus; his brain, determined to catch up on the extra sleep it'd been deprived of, tries to snatch it from him in the middle of taking notes.

Shiro wordlessly nudges the coffee thermos in his direction. He takes it and swallows deep.

When the lecture finally fizzles to its end—the professor, in her passion to cram as much material as possible before the second midterm, goes overtime by two minutes—Keith finds himself bleary-eyed and stiff-handed. He shuffles out behind Shiro into the cool morning air and sucks the chill into his lungs, startling his body into wakefulness.

"Looks like it's going to be a cold day," Shiro sighs, staring up into the mist. The grey cloud cover hangs low enough to almost touch. "Do you have class later?"

"In an hour," Keith says. "Calculus."  
  
"In that case.." Shiro smiles. Keith stares up at him and can't help but smile back; the mist collects on Shiro's hair like tiny crystals, nestling and bright. "Want to meet up for lunch later?"

"'Course," he breathes. _As if I could ever say no._ "Where?"

"How about your place? I kinda want to take off my shoes.." Shiro shifts and winces. "They're a bit wet."  
  
"Alright. I'll see you then." Keith pauses, fingers itching in his sweatshirt pocket. "Um.."  
  
"Yeah?"

"Just—" He licks his lips and then, before he can rethink the motion, reaches up to slide his hand through the suspended droplets in Shiro's hair. The water coalesces freely under his skin and releases the scent of Shiro's shampoo; he sucks in a soft breath and, eyes falling from where the droplets shiver free, finds himself eye to eye with the man himself.

"You've got a little something in your hair," he breathes, feeling his chest flush under his clothes.

Shiro's smile widens, cheeks rosy even without the cold. One hand curls around Keith's wrist easily, his thumb sliding to brush across his palm, and as Keith watches, he kisses the tips of his fingers. Bright teeth gleam between his fingertips.

"Thanks," he laughs.

 _Oh, God._ Keith is pretty sure he's going to burst into flames.

.

"So." Pidge licks leftover salt from her fingertips. "Have you decided yet?"

They've sprawled themselves out onto the living room floor, pillows stacked at the edges of a spread blanket to create a small wall. As Pidge shoves another fistful of salt-and-vinegar chips into her maw, Keith balances one of Allura's rats—Socrates, if he remembers correctly—on one shoulder. The rat's long whiskers tickle at his neck as he sniffs Keith's collarbone, thoroughly examining the exposed skin above his long-sleeve.

"On what?" He frowns, going through the mental litany of things he has to do this week. "You'll have to be specific."  
  
"Classes." Pidge sticks one hand into the bag and digs her way to the bottom, bringing the plastic up to her elbow. She pulls her fingers out, sparkling with coarse salt and flavoring, and licks at them again. "Enrollment dates are next week."  
  
"So I've heard."

"Have you decided what to take yet?"

"What do you think?" He wrinkles his nose. "I didn't know it was coming up until this morning."  
  
"Hmm. Me too."  
  
They lie in silence, passing the gallon bag between them. Socrates sniffs at his fingers, licking hesitantly, and skitters down his chest to rest at his waistband. His tail drags over one hipbone and tickles the exposed skin there.

"Do you think you'll have any more classes with him?"

"I don't know. Hadn't thought of it."  
  
"Hmm. You're two different majors, right?"

"Yeah."   
  
Socrates pokes his nose under Keith's shirt hem, nose tickling at his belly, and squeaks. Pidge sits up on one elbow with a pensive expression, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Can I ask a question?”

"What?"

"Do you ever—" She pauses, eyes trailing to the ceiling. "I know you don't believe in monsters the same way I do. But now that you know Mothman is real, and you _talk_ to him and everything.. Do you think other monsters have the capacity to exist?"

"The capacity?" Keith frowns. "I guess they do. I never thought about it."  
  
"There are so many variations of cryptids in the world, so many possibilities of them existing just beyond our sight, I just—" She sighs, cramming more chips in her mouth. "You can't see Mothman and tell me Bigfoot _isn't_ real. Don't you think?"

"Bigfoot." Keith runs one finger over Socrates' fur, marveling at the softness of his tiny ears. "Him again, huh."  
  
"I'm serious Keith, he's got some of the richest lore out there, you can't tell me he isn't real—"  
  
"I'm not telling you anything," Keith says. "You can believe what you want."  
  
Pidge flops flat onto her back and sighs. "What about you?"

"What about me?" He blinks, poking at Socrates toes. _Tiny._ "I'll believe it when I see it."  
  
Pidge's mouth twists at that, but she doesn't push the subject further. A new silence stretches between them, sleepy and lulled, and Keith lets himself fall into it freely. Socrates snuffles quietly into his palm and curls up there, tail dragging between his fingers.

"Shay's grandma wants us to come in on Friday," Pidge finally says. "I got the email this morning. Whatever she wants to tell us is time sensitive, apparently—she's had one of her vague premonitions."

"Hmm."

"Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think there's another monster out there that could be killing people?"

He opens his eyes. The ceiling is off-white, dusty from decades of never being cleaned; the overhead windows leak in watery sunlight that turns the paint the color of cream.

"I don't know," he murmurs. Socrates twitches in his palm, his tiny heartbeat thumping away against of Keith's thumbs. "Maybe."

.

**Shirt: you said you were going to visit that lady, right?**

**Keef: yeah. why?**

**Shirt: could i maybe.. come with you guys? please? i have some questions for her**

**Keef: i dont see why not**

**Shirt: i can come pick you guys up. we can even stop by mcdonalds on the way back** **  
** **Keef: sounds like a plan**

.

If Shay is surprised to see an extra body between Keith and Pidge, she doesn't show it. Today's ensemble—a floor-length navy blue dress with little crescent moons stitched into it, combined with buttery cable knit stockings—shimmers under the candlelight of the house's interior, dark folds catching the light where they ripple like dark water. She beckons them in without any preamble.

Grandma is already at the coffee table when they come into the kitchen. A cluster of tealights flicker at the center of the table, illuminating the deep wrinkles of her leathery skin and setting back her eyes in the sockets. She smiles gently at the sight of them and gestures to the seats around the table. Keith notes, as he slips into one, that she set out enough mugs and sugar spoons for all four of them.

"I guessed you'd bring someone along," she admits, scraping her spoon along the inside of her cup. "Call it a feeling, if you will."

"Thank you," Shiro says. He extends one hand and shakes hers before settling on Keith's left. "I'm Shiro."  
  
"White." Her sunken eyes glitter like polished stones. "Ironic for someone like you, don't you think?"

Everyone at the table freezes. Pidge's mouth pops open ever so slightly before she remembers herself and closes it once again.

Shiro, to his credit, doesn’t visibly panic. His mouth flattens into a thin line. "I beg your pardon?"

The crone stares at him for a long moment. He stares back unmoving.

"No, maybe I'm wrong,” she finally says. “My mistake, young man. These old eyes of mine aren't as good at seeing things as they once were."

Shiro takes a seat. He pulls the mug up close to his chest but doesn't break eye contact to take a sip. Under the table, Keith can see one of his hands curled into a fist in his jeans.

To her credit, Shay's grandma doesn't dilly-dally. Once they've all visibly settled she slips out a small, used envelope from her skirt pocket, stained and wrinkled at one edge, covered in haphazard inky scrawls so spidery that Keith can barely discern letters.

"You'll have to excuse my handwriting," she says, straightening the paper on the table. "Sleep is when our minds are most vulnerable—I was barely woken from a dream when I wrote it. The nerves hadn't left me yet."

She angles the paper towards Pidge and lets her take it, bringing it up close to her face to read. Whatever words she sees there are enough to send her eyebrows nearly into her hairline, eyes widening with some incalculable expression. The paper falls back to the kitchen table with a soft smack.

"What does it say?" Keith asks after a moment. "Pidge?"

Brown eyes find him across the table. She sucks in a long, soft breath.

 _"Two moons. Two sides. The world is black and white, though grey shades walk in the shadows._ "

They stare at each other.

 _"More than one,_ " she whispers. _"More than one, but less than five._ "

A quiet stretches between them.

"I don't get it," Shiro finally says. He coughs into one fist, his eyes darting between Pidge and Keith. "Do you guys know something about this?"

"It's what M—what _he_ said." Pidge's eyes snap to meet Shiro's. "He talked about there being more than one."  
  
" _He is the moon,_ " Keith echoes. His hands, suddenly stiff, curl into claws inside his jacket.

"So this isn't news to you," the old woman nods. "That much, I didn't think would be. The darkness has been growing for a while, now—soon enough everyone will be able to feel it, regardless of how disconnected they might believe themselves to be." Her expression darkens. "The methods can't just be a coincidence—I feel a resurgence of _him_ ."  
  
"Mothman," Keith murmurs. Beside him, Shiro's brow furrows.

"Mothman? What does he have to do with any of this?"

"Your friends didn't bother to clue you in?" Grandma raises her eyebrows and takes a slow sip of her tea. "He is real, young man, and he's coming back. Did you think the murders in Garrison Park were simply coincidences?"

"How do you know it was him that did it?" Shiro grits. "It could have been any sort of wild animal, or maybe another human being. How do you know it was—was _Mothman_?"

"The largest animal we have in the park are mountain lions," the old woman says calmly. "And they rarely attack humans, shy as they are. Their methods of attack are different as well; they don't just cut out the heart, the veins, the way a creature thirsting for blood would."

Keith winces at the sudden resurgence of Mothman's memories. He can still see their eyes frozen open, twin expressions of horror as their bodies were methodically torn apart.

"It could have been a double homicide," Shiro suggests quietly, but his voice crumbles under the old lady's stare.

"Don't question my intelligence, young man. I know Mothman's touch when I see it—I was here long before all of you, long enough to see when he killed before. He's rising to power again, somehow, and the sooner we decide what to do, the better. Are we going to argue over the origin of these deaths or resolve them so they may rest in peace?"

The table goes silent. Keith can't decide whether to stare into his tea or at Shiro—doesn't have anything to say for once, anything to argue Shiro's case without getting everything backwards.

"Excuse me," Shiro says. "I'm going to use the restroom real quick."

Keith waits for him to leave the room as per Shay's instructions before swinging around. His teacup rattles as it smacks onto the table, white knuckles squeezing the handle.

"Isn't there any way to know for sure? You said something about two moons. Can't there be some other explanation?"

Grandmother's wrinkled mouth twists in on itself. Her eyes, dark and faraway, lighten on Keith and pin him in his seat.

"Why do you protect him? For what purpose?"

Pidge exhales noisily, eyebrows coming together. "That's—"

"Maybe it's none of your business," Keith grits, squeezing his teacup tighter. "Not if you're going to treat Shiro that way."  
  
"We're making a mistake here," Pidge says, sensing the oncoming blow-up. "I think we need to start over from square one—"  
  
"There's no need." Grandmother's eyes glint like hardened diamonds. "I can see it clearly—and so can you, can't you? The darkness alive within him. It bleeds everywhere."

Keith scowls. "He isn't evil. You don't understand what he's been through—"  
  
"I know enough to know you are not _safe_ , can't you see—"  
  
"No, _you_ see!" He's standing, jostling the table hard enough to splash tea onto the surface, but he doesn't care. "Shiro's done nothing. I've _talked_ Mothman, I know exactly what he's done. He isn't the one who killed those people—he's only a bystander, now. He isn't who you think he is _at all_."

"You spoke to him." Her weathered hands curl around her teacup. "How many times?"

He sucks in a sharp breath, two. He feels too hot in all of his layers, inside this tiny, cluttered kitchen with the oven open for heat.

"Keith—"  
"I don't know. A lot?" His hands slacken, leaving crescent-shaped marks in his palms. "Why does it matter?"

"Everything _matters_ , young man." The old woman's frown deepens. "The more you touch his mind, the more you become intertwined with his trace. I can see it clearer now that you're separated—his darkness hangs onto your skin like an old stain."

Keith slides his palms over his forearms and does his best not to flinch at the memory of afterimages burned into his flesh.

"You know it too, don't you?" She presses. The tremble in her gnarled fingers is completely gone now, leaving her stock-still and staring as if Keith might sprout his own pair of wings right there. "You can feel it."  
  
Whatever response burning on his tongue fizzles away at the sight of Shiro reappearing in the doorway. His eyes train on the old woman; his hands clench around the frame, clinging tight enough to expose the tendons beneath his skin.

"You know what— _who_ —shares my body." His expression is flat, empty. "You know, and you still keep me at your table?"

"Who am I to cast out another who can disturb the aural rift?" The old woman sniffs. "Don't look so surprised. I could tell there was something amiss the moment you walked up to the doorstep. There's far too much darkness in you to merely be your own energy—you house _his_ spirit as well, don't you?" She wrinkles her nose. "But not as much as I remember there being. My dreams are correct, just as I knew they would be."  
  
"Your dreams," Shiro echoes faintly. He moves into the room as if impeded by molasses, his fingers coming to stop at the back of Keith's chair. "About the two moons?"

"Two moons, two sides." She shakes her head and grey, frizzled hair fluffs over her shoulders. "The sentiment is the same. You pale in comparison to his usual might; there must be another draw of his energy, or a way his spirit has been siphoned. He is.. lesser."  
  
"Someone made him less evil?" Keith frowns. "Is that even possible?"

"Evil is subjective," the old woman murmurs. "Monsters of myth don't know terms such as that—they existed long before names could be placed to things. The term you seek is, in terms of human thought, morally wayward, but even that isn't the right way to distinguish how he normally is.. absent of light."  
  
"I can imagine it," Keith murmurs. _The inky darkness swelling and falling like midnight ocean waves._

"Wait," Pidge says. She sets her cup down carefully. "Are you saying there actually _is_ another monster out there? Something else with the same.. aura?"  
  
"It seems that might be the case." The old woman stares into her empty teacup, mouth pinching tight. "Though I loathe to know what that could mean for the future of our peace."

"So what do we do?" Shiro sinks back into his chair. "Is there anything we _can_ do?"

"I don't know," she says honestly. "These circumstances are beyond even my eyes. If it—whatever _it_ may be—is anything like your own spirit, however, it will seek you both out." Her eyes flicker between Shiro and Keith. "You both attract the darkness in different ways. Anything curious in finding a match will surely come after you both, and you must be ready when it finds you."  
  
"We'll be ready," Keith says, but the hole in his stomach is beginning to reopen, maw widening to swallow his fears whole.

.

The human brain works in strange ways when faced with oncoming disaster, spreading reactions into an uneven gradient between outward aggression and internal collapse, paranoia and self-placation. Keith is no stranger to paralyzing fear or defiance; he’d like to call himself daring, unafraid to stare up into the stars as the sky falls down. He's done it before, time and time again, as the impossible became possible and tangible, as the monster of his nightmares slept in his dreams, cradled his head, combed its fingers through his hair.

He knows how to brace for impact as much as any other, but how can you be prepared for something you can't see? When the monsters under your bed crawl into the open, do you know what they look like? Can you recognize them just by looking them in the eyes?

Keith thought he knew, but now he isn't so sure.

When they walk along the perimeter of the woods, he can't quell the uneasiness that tangles in his lungs, smoking him from the inside-out. It's been days since Shay's grandmother saw their doom, their future with that shapeless creature that tore out hearts with ease.

They're close enough to the college that he can still see orange rooftops between tree branches; if he closes his eyes and focuses hard enough, the clamor of bass-boosted music and trickling laughter slides over wet leaves, cocooning them in trailing threads of safety beyond the fence. They're close enough to be safe.

This close to campus, random benches have been left by unknown inhabitants for others to use. A metal can trails wisps of cigarette smoke where others, barred by the rulebook from smoking any closer, come out to do their business in peace. Keith taps at the can with his sneaker and watches the ashes shift inside.

"You don't have any late classes," Shiro says. He leans against a tree trunk and closes his eyes, inhaling the familiar scents of the forest. "That's a blessing, at least."

"What about you?" Keith frowns. "Don't you have a section after dark?"

"It's near the parking lots. I won't be bothered by anyone."

Shiro's self-confidence amazes Keith just as much as it baffles him; his faith in the movements of an unknown animal is complete, almost naively so. Where Keith knows better than to walk beyond lamplight, Shiro walks under the glow and stoutly denies the existence of any monster that can best sheer will.

For someone who still fears the spirit housed in their flesh, he takes the news awfully well—too well, if Keith knows any better.

"I'm still worried," he admits softly. "We don't know what's out there."

"Not yet," Shiro agrees, "but we will. You said so yourself, didn't you? We'll be ready."  
  
He plucks old bark from the trees as if he hasn't a care in the world. Keith basks in the warmth of his confidence, charisma warming under his skin like a tiny sun, but he's suddenly cognizant of how fragile a star can _really_ be—how easy it is, in the presence of a black hole, to split apart and become utterly consumed by emptiness.

 _An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object_ , he thinks, and his mouth twists at the thought.

.

When he sleeps, neither the white wings of his dreams nor the black ones in the waking world come to meet him. His thoughts parcel together in quiet space, fragments pushing together like two puzzles, uneven and never made to fit but being forced together regardless.

_He is the moon._

_One more._

_Black and white, light and dark._

Piece by piece an image forms beneath his clumsy, forceful fingers. He traces the jagged edges of borrowed memories and cuts his thumb open; the blood that surges forth froths unnaturally, too dark to be fresh, and he feels a cold weight take shape right over his heart—foreboding.

He couples his thoughts in cupped palms, looking at what he has, making sense of skips in time and dashes in thoughts. Filling in the quiet space between bumps of Braille, coloring ink into the white space he cannot see.

The amalgamation of forced fragments is an abomination. He steps back from the puzzle he's made and can barely discern heads or tails from it; the colors don't match, the lines never go more than an inch before cutting off and beginning elsewhere. Still, underneath all the mess, he begins to understand.

Because what better way to split the darkness than to make two mirror images, two parallels that match when you press them together, that bleed from one vein into another connecting one, pouring cognizance and consciousness like water—

_More than one but less than five—_

His eyes snap open.

It's too dark to see anything, at first. Lance has pulled in the blinds to block out the lamp post that burns too bright from the sidewalk. He blinks and blinks until the odd squiggles in his vision dissipate into something solid. The tiny smiley face on the ceiling beams at him, frozen and inky-black in the dark.

He doesn't know why he gets out of bed, only that he knows he _needs_ to. The tug in his gut increases in urgency with every quiet, hurried movement he makes; he fumbles on his sneakers, jamming pajamas and socks into the heels in his blindness, and slips out into the hallway.

A thin layer of condensation rests on the sliding glass, thickening into drops that raise every goosebump on his arm when he swipes it clean and reaches for the handle. The metal clicks too loudly in the softness of slumber, a snap splintering the peace of the living room, and he winces, half-expecting Hunk to come out and see what the noise is all about.

But nobody comes. He waits for a moment, holding his breath, and then slips out into the cold.

The usual hubbub has dulled this late; he sucks in a breath and holds it, waiting for the sounds of others milling about, but there’s only silence. He makes the only sounds, footsteps thumping down the stairs of his building, under that lamp post that serves as the bane to Lance's existence. Humidity levels are high enough to condense the clouds up close, sprinkling a soft mist that illuminates itself as it falls through the fluorescence, spangling the gravel pavement with gleaming droplets.

Beautiful as the mist might be, staying under the light won't bring out what he wants to see. He knows this and, with an acknowledgement to whatever gods might be watching, drifts away from the dull glow of campus into the unmarked, wet borders of the forest.

It doesn't take long for wetness to seep through the cracks in his old sneakers, dampening his socks and turning his toes into blocks of ice. The chill rides up his ankles under his pajamas and prickles the skin there, riling his reflexes where every follicle on his body rises to combat the cold. His breath puffs like a small cloud around him as he moves deeper and deeper into the redwoods, branches and bushes clinging and dragging over his clothes, dew resting and coalescing on the surface of his warm body. He's utterly slick in the time it takes him to fumble through the darkness, ankles creaking and fingers developing tiny scratches as he slides down the hillside.

He wonders, briefly, if he should be more afraid of having no control over his body. The hole in his chest is ever expanding as he moves, widening to tear at the soft hope nestled in his heart, eating it in tiny, piecemeal movements. He doesn't know where he's going but he knows he has to _get there_ , has to meet him no matter what.

The roadside gleams wet, paint crumbled and faded where erosion and past heavy rains have taken their course. No lightposts exist this deep into the forest but he doesn't need them anyway; the moon, already reaching a healthy crescent shape, spills enough reflecting light for him to pick his way along with ease. His hands and feet are utterly numb, now, and he can't feel his face, but he's almost there.

If one had no intention of finding the underpass, they would surely never be able to locate it. The gentle curvature of the soil betrays little of what lies beyond sudden, dense clumps of prickly bushes. He picks his way between snarled branches, feeling the spiky, cruel jabs piercing the thin flannel of his pajama bottoms, ignoring how tiny, warm stings light up on cold, exposed skin as his hands push branches aside. The mud here is thick and soupy, sucking at his sneakers, but his feet are too cold to feel it properly. He slips and slides his way down the tiny embankment until he's beneath the road.

Logically speaking, no light should exist here. The haze in the back of his mind lifts just enough for him to recognize such an inconsistency but pushes no further; the threads of his mind, already loose and fraying into the wind, are not cohesive enough to string a full thought.

His eyes slide over graffiti—rich and lurid, bloodshot eyes and gaping mouths with purple teeth, lemon-yellow tongues extending to brush gnarled, blue hands, lips stretched into screams to match odd, jagged letters he can't discern. There has to be at least fifteen bodies, warped and stretched in artistic renditions of agony, branded onto concrete where nobody will ever be able to see them.

And then, amidst comic horror, the source of the light shines at the end of the tunnel.

He stops short.

 _"You,"_ he whispers.

The man smiles, revealing straight, perfectly-white teeth.

"Me."  
  
The shape he takes is unfamiliar. Long white hair, lanky frame, an angular face and pointed chin. Everything about him speaks in cold, jagged tongues—even the light is cold, white and perfect, yielding tears that dampen scraped cheeks.

But even with smooth, perfect skin and a pressed velvet coat, there's no hiding those eyes—eyes that he knows instinctively should gleam yellow, angled and slitted like a cat's, though they look nothing like that now.

His eyes are black holes.

"What do you want from me?" His hands, icy and numb, are nothing but frozen fists at his sides. He's cold enough to freeze entirely and shatter into the wind. "Who _are_ you?"

"You already know." That smile stretches wider, too wide to be human, teeth pointed like fangs. "You've known for a while, haven't you? But you hoped it wasn't true."

"You're a monster."  
  
The man just smiles and smiles.

"We don't have anything you want," he tells him. His heart beats hard enough in his chest to make his muscles quiver. He sucks in a single, quick breath and is suddenly conscious of how exposed he is, fragile in his pajamas, isolated in the deep woods in the middle of the night.

_I could die now and nobody would know for hours._

"Don't you?" The man cocks his head, looking him up and down slowly. "I can see it on your skin, you know. You look rather fitting in black."

He grits his teeth, ignoring the sudden, unbidden bloom of ink over his flesh. He's covered from head to toe, but he knows that if he pushed up his sleeves he would see them, smeared and dark as the first time.

'Please understand," the man croons. "I don't mean to harm you—not directly, anyway. I just want to you to know that I'm rather tired of playing this game of tag. I want it to end soon, for all of our sakes."

"Nobody's _playing games_ ," he spits. "We're just trying to live. _Leave us the fuck alone_."

"Language, language." He tuts, tossing a wave of platinum blonde over one shoulder. "Your foul, human words are so ugly. I'll never grow used to them, no matter how long I live."

The man steps forward, then, and the way he smiles makes every hair stand on end. He knows with sickening certainty that running will do no good; there is nowhere to go that the man won't follow, nothing he can do to escape the eyes in the back of his brain.

_Found you._

"Your despair is disappointing," the man informs him. "I had hoped that you would fight a little harder after all the work I've gone through to pin you down. Are you just lucky, or is it _him_ protecting you?" His teeth glint in the reflection of his own light. "I suppose we'll know soon."

"You don't know anything," he spits back, but the words are hollow, falling like eggshells to be squashed underfoot. The man is rapidly approaching, moving without moving, spanning the distance between them despite every effort to tear away. "You don't know him the way I do."

"Don't I?" The man raises one perfectly-groomed eyebrow. "I'm the one who met him first. We've spent the most time together, him and I—you could even say that I made him the way he is. Not on purpose, of course, but collateral damage was to be expected."

The twist of his lips is wholly ugly, contorting his expression with jagged lines and bulging eyes. No light exists in those twin holes; he stares into them and believes he could fall in and be eaten alive, heart-first and blood-second.

"Not yet," the man says, matter-of-fact. He laughs high and wild, gently unhinged. "It's not time for that just yet. There are greater schemes than just those involving _you_ , you know—I exist. You two have been traipsing around, playing house, and I've been left to fend for myself. Isn't it rather obtuse to be so short-sighted?"

"You're not wanted," he says, but the words curl and die the moment they come out of his mouth. All the strength he's imagined himself when he's awake means nothing here.

"Don't I know it." The man sighs. "I feel as if I've heard those words a million times—but even if they're true, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters this close to the end." The light gleams brighter at whatever thoughts flit through his mind, burning white-hot, paling the vibrant paint around them. "The game is almost over whether you like it or not."

"I won't play your game," he spits. "We're going to beat you."

The man snorts. "Have you been listening? You've already been playing for months. If you're going to be such a sore-loser, I almost wish I'd killed you sooner." He cocks his head to one side, considering something, and shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, well. The sun is rising, and I'm tired of talking to you. Run along now."

He opens his mouth to protest, to demand _real_ answers, but the words stick in his throat like honey. The light swells brighter, bright enough to be painful, burning his retinas, and he squeezes his eyes shut to protect himself. There's an odd, ugly sucking noise, slurping and echoing in the tunnel-space loud enough to make his stomach roil.

His legs are numb. He can feel himself falling, but the pain with hitting the ground never comes. He spins and spins and spins, spiraling through the white space as the eyes blink open and shut, open and shut, _staring_ —

He opens his eyes. Sunlight leaks through the open window, golden and _real,_ warming the space below his loft.

He should feel relieved. He should be happy that it was all a dream, happy that he's still safe in his bed, cold and numb as he is—

He shifts, legs shaking, and one foot bumps the opposite calf.

_What the—_

He peels back the sheets and stares down at his pajamas, soiled and brown on the ends with mud. The earth stinks like decaying leaves where it's spread across his sheets, smeared like shit in uneven, thick sludge.

"Keith? You’re late—”  
  
He leans over the side of the bed and vomits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there he is.. everyone's favorite stinkman.
> 
>  
> 
> come talk moth theory and shiro appreciation with me on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	13. The Calm Before The Moth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be mindful of the tags, dears.

“I can’t believe this,” Lance complains. “Isn’t Hunk supposed to be the one with the small stomach?”  


“‘M sorry.” Keith ducks his head under the shower spray, lips parting to rinse the acid between his teeth. “I’m sorry—”  
  
“You already said that.”  
  
“I don’t know what else to  _ say! _ ”  
  
“Well.” Lance taps his perfectly-manicured nails against the sink counter. “How about you start with telling me what made you throw up  _ on top of my head? _ ”   
Keith stares down at his feet. The bones of his toes stick out oddly, ugly and knobbed beneath the skin, flesh pale though the water runs hot enough to press steam to every surface. Soap suds froth at the bathtub’s mouth, spiraling in circles until the pressure sucks them under. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. “You wouldn’t get it.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
_ I’m dating a were-cryptid and an evil monster is trying to kill us,  _ his brain supplies helpfully. Keith scowls and rubs harder at his hair. “Don’t you have somewhere to be right now?”

“Not anymore,” Lance chirps. He tucks his legs up on top of the toilet seat and stares at a wet spot on the tiles. “You helped out with that one.”

“For God sakes, I said I was sorry—”  
  
“It’s fine, really. I didn’t want to go to section anyway.”

Keith tips shampoo into his palms and slicks his hands together, watching as the yellow goo flattens into a thinner, filmy paste on his skin. His hair sticks oddly to his nape when he runs his hands through his hair, and as he spreads the stuff over his whole scalp, sharp lemon balm wafts into the air.

Lance spreads his legs out from the toilet seat, lifting one to examine the immaculate blue polish on his toes. He'd stayed up late the night before making sure he painted them just right; the effect, once buffed and polished, makes his nails stand out like sea glass against his dark skin.

"Even if you don't tell me, I'm bound to find out one day," he finally says, once Keith's rinsed out all the shampoo. He nearly drops the conditioner bottle on his foot at Lance's voice. "And I don't mean that as a threat. People can't keep ugly stuff inside forever."  
  
"I know that already."  
  
"You sure?"

Keith slaps conditioner onto the crown of his scalp. The mush cools his skin the second it seeps in, making his whole head tingle; as he drags his nails through the stuff, spreading it out evenly, his hair takes on a slickness Lance had promised would make his hair  _ baby soft.  _ As someone who's never tried to be near babies (much less touch one on the head) Keith is going to take his word for it.

Still, no matter how soft and buttery Lance would like to make Keith on the outside, his resolve has long hardened beneath his skin, There may be nothing he can say or do to shake Lance off his back, but there's also nothing the guy can do to make Keith tell him what he knows,  _ especially  _ now that there's a wild card in the mix. The two of them exist on different planets, different planes of existence.

And though Keith hates the way Lance looks at him, he has to keep it that way. For the good of everyone.

"I'm going to fix this myself," he announces, and ducks his head under the hot stream. "Just worry about yourself. Weren't you complaining about your statistics midterm?"

"Hey now," Lance squawks. "I'll have you know that I've been studying like a  _ monster  _ lately—my TA not only knows me by name, but she's got my phone number too—"  
  
"What, moved on from Allura?"

"I thought we agreed not to talk about her!"

"I don't remember agreeing—"  
  
_ "Keith!" _

 

Hunk hikes his backpack higher over one shoulder and cracks open the sliding glass with the other, slipping inside the moment the gap is wide enough so not to let out heat. Their living room sports traces of last night's hubbub on top of their morning routines—coffee on the pot, blankets thrown onto the floor, mud caked at the edge of the carpet where it meets the door.

_ Mud? _

He frowns, lost in swirling thoughts about his upcoming chemistry quiz, and drifts from the living room into the hallway. He'll have to ask the boys about it when they get back from class.

_ "Keith!  _ Oh my God, would you just—"  
  
"Get your hands off me! I know how to do it!"

Hunk pauses just outside the bathroom door. It's shut tight, light barely seeping from underneath the door, but he can clearly hear the two of them arguing in there. He parts his lips to call and see if they need any help, but his words die in his throat at the sound of laughter.

_ Keith's  _ laughter.

"Look what you've done!" Lance shrieks, but Hunk can hear the brightness bubbling in his voice too. "Now I'm going to have to restyle my hair for the third time today. Who are you, Satan?"

"That's  _ your  _ title," Keith laughs. His voice sounds wrecked, hoarse and tired as it seems to be a lot lately, but the warm chords sing through loud and clear. Hunk smiles to himself, his heart lifting at the idea of him finding some peace.

"You guys good?" He calls, smiling to himself.

"Fine!" Keith says, just as Lance shrieks even louder. "Just fine."  
  
"You'll regret this Keith, I know where you sleep—"

"Don't leave a mess in the bathroom," he reminds them, and shuffles down towards his room. He chuckles to himself. "Those guys, I swear.."   


.

The two weeks before Thanksgiving belong in their own liminal space. There’s no way to describe the odd conglomeration between frantic secondary midterms, realization that the quarter is  _ more than halfway over and I have a B minus _ , and the inevitable apathy surging in bones at the idea of a few precious days off away from the hectic sphere of college life. Plans are already being made over Keith's head, people talking noisily wherever he goes about doing this and going to see that when they visit their families. Sisters, brothers, cousins, lovers—all awaiting returns with open arms.

Keith opens his email for the third time in an hour and stares at his inbox. There's nothing from his aunt. He shouldn't be too surprised; they often go whole months without conversation, leaving each other to revolve on the different planets they reside upon. Whole states, hundreds of miles between them, and it’s easy to say  _ out of sight, out of mind. _

Usually.

"You okay?"

Shiro thumbs through his notes for their biology class, one hand propping up his chin on the table.  _ He's  _ had his Thanksgiving plans marked out in full detail since the turn of the month, apparently—perks of having a mother who's desperate to fret over her only child.

Keith pushes something of a smile onto his face. "Fine." 

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow. "You sure? You've been making a funny face for nearly a half hour, now." 

"I have?" Keith touches his face, hesitant, and drops his hand to his lap as quickly as realizing the gesture. "Sorry. It's just.."

He doesn't know why he's so hurt over this. It isn't like he ever  _ was  _ close to his aunt and uncle the same way he's seen other people be with their parents. Even when he was five, dropped off with all of his bags at his grandma's motor-home for the last time, barely getting a chance to say goodbye to his dad—

His grandma telling him not to say goodbye to his dad—

Careful spaces, gaps between fingers and cutlery on the table, hands pausing before they comb through his hair or kiss him goodnight. The end of goodnight kisses after he asks  _ why  _ rather than saying  _ I love you. _

There's nothing to be done about it now, he knows; you can't make up for fifteen years of carefully-crafted distance overnight. But even when he said goodbye before fall quarter,  _ knowing  _ that returning would be harder than simply speaking it into existence, he still can't help but feel a pang of bitterness.

Growing up he had less people to wedge into the lonely gap in his heart, but now that he's become used to the spaces being filled..

Shiro leans in across the table, all the chiseled lines of his face softening. The way his eyes sweep over Keith's face to rest on the curve of his lips sends a cluster of butterflies into flight in Keith’s gut.

"Thanksgiving," he finally manages to say. "You're going home, right?"

"Yeah. Mom arranged it before I could get a say." Shiro’s mouth quirks up, and then flattens as he takes in the dull edge of Keith's expression. "Are you.. staying here?"  
  
"It's only four days. It would be silly to take a flight for that long."

"Is that what your family said?"

He tears his gaze from Shiro's to stare at the ceiling. "Basically."  
  
"Keith.."  
  
The pitying look he gives him makes everything left on Keith's tongue taste sour. What's there to be sorry for? This is just the way things are.

"It's not a big deal," he says. "Don't worry about it."  
  
"What about Pidge? Is she going home too?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "She lives in the area. It's easy for her to commute home."  
  
"I see." Shiro's lips part, his brow furrowing absently. "Well, if she doesn't take you, then you can come home with me."  
  
Keith blinks. His heart lurches dangerously against his ribs.  _ Go home with..? _

"No," he blurts, before the odd ache in his chest unravels into something terrifying. "No. It's fine. I'll figure it out."

"Are you sure? It'll be boring, being alone—" 

"I'll be fine." Shiro doesn't look convinced. " _ Really _ ."

Something warm twists and twists inside Keith's stomach, mixing with the butterflies, desperate to burst out of his mouth—but he knows better than to let it fly free. Nothing good ever comes of premature optimism.

_ But speaking of butterflies.. _

"Shiro." Keith slides one thumb along the edge of the table, staring at the old, stained surface. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

A tiny pinprick of pain sparks in Keith's thumb—a stray splinter, somehow, though these tables have existed since the dawn of the dinosaurs. He stares at the sliver jutting out of his skin, watching blood make its way towards the unnatural protrusion. It doesn't even hurt.

_ Are you just lucky or is it  _ him  _ protecting you? _

"Do you—you don't remember anything more, about changing into.."

Shiro's soft expression harden infinitesimally around his mouth. He sits back in his chair. "You mean the first time?"

"Yeah."

"No." He stares down at the tabletop. "I told you everything I know." 

Keith doesn’t know what to say. People don't just go into the woods and come out genetically  _ different _ . The gaps in Shiro's memory are large enough to serve as windows, except Keith can't see what's out on the other side. Neither of them can.

He can't imagine how frustrating it would be, to have holes in his memory during the most crucial night of his life.

"Sorry," he mutters. "I just wanted to make sure."

They don't make much progress studying after that, the mood effectively soured beyond repair. Keith picks at the splinter in his thumb until it pops out and blood begins to bead, a gleaming droplet in the even grooves of his thumbprint. He lets his dreams play on repeat in his brain until the outside noise and inside humming of his thoughts blend together into a smoothie that has no beginning, no end, no way out into clarity.

.

"It's almost time," Lance sings, waving his empty mug in the air. "Hundreds of maniacs sitting at their computers, ready to slow down the enrollment servers—it's enough to make a man break out, don't you think Hunk?"

"It's definitely stressful," his friend agrees. He tips his head back until it hits the back of the sofa. "I've had back-ups for my back-ups and it still doesn't feel like enough."

"You'll get in," Pidge says confidently. "Your click speed is faster than everyone else's, save for mine, and there aren't too many people interested in a mechanics elective for winter. It'll be cold and rainy down at the shop all quarter." 

"Worth it," Hunk shrugs. "Better than taking only night classes."

"It's a matter of opinion," she sniffs, and jams another chip into her mouth.

"What about you Keith?" They all eye him curiously. Lance cocks his head to one side. "I saw you looking at the roster still this morning. Haven't you decided yet?"

He looks up from his article on mammalian hemoglobin variances to the three of them sprawled over all the living room furniture. "No."

"No? Isn't your enrollment in two hours?"

"I don't care what I take, as long as it's for my major." He blinks slowly, eyes sliding back to the scatter-plots on his screen. "And not an 8am lecture."

"What sort of attitude is that?" Lance scowls and waves his mug around harder. "Is anyone gonna turn on the kettle again or do I have to do it?"

"You do it," Pidge says, staring blankly at her computer screen.

Tiny graphs with tinier dots, speckled ink on a scanned page with quality bad enough to make a grown man cry. Keith stares until his eyes water and he has to rub at them.

"But really." The kettle begins to noisily churn as it heats up, filling the high ceilings of their apartment with an awful rattling. Lance shouts over the noise, uncaring. "Don't you have any classes you  _ want  _ to take? What about Shiro?"

"What  _ about  _ him?" Keith snaps, but his voice is lost to the electric kettle's shrieking. He waits for the noise to die down, boiling water sloshing into Lance's mug to steep over peppermint tea. "He's an MCD major. He has his own things to focus on."  
  
"So you're not going to try to share a class?" Lance quirks an eyebrow. "Isn't it easier to take classes with someone you know? To share notes and stuff. I know you two do that right now."  
  
"I don't need it."  
  
Lance's other eyebrow rises to meet the first.

"He has major specialty classes to take."  
  
"But I bet that isn't his whole schedule. Guy's gotta have  _ some  _ GE's left, don't you think?"

“I don’t know, why don’t  _ you  _ ask him?”

"If he doesn't," Pidge says suddenly, "why don't you try to take one with me?" Her eyes flicker up to meet Keith's over her laptop screen. "I'm trying for the GE on monsters."  
  
"Monsters," he echoes. "We have a GE about monsters?"

"Not just monsters. Cryptids. Ghouls. Any sort of supernatural being in a general sense." Her mouth twists oddly at one side in a pale mimicry of a smile. "You might find it educational."

"It's not that easy to just move my schedule."  
  
"I thought you said you didn't have one yet?"

Keith scowls.

"Why are you being so difficult about this?" Lance gripes. "Don't you  _ want  _ to take classes with us? Nevermind, don't answer that."

"I just—if I keep taking classes blindly, I won't be any closer to a major." He huffs, exiting out of the PDF. It wasn't like he was really reading it anyway. "I don't know what I want to do yet. If I keep fucking around then there's no way I'll be able to graduate in four years."  
  
"I thought you wanted to stay in biological studies?" Hunk asks absentmindedly. He dips his hand into the chip bag between him and Pidge and blindly brings a bunch into his mouth. "Or is tha' no' i'?"

"No, I  _ do _ ," he says. "I just. You guys know what you want to  _ do  _ with your degrees." He stares down at his biology syllabus with a dull expression, lips pulling down. "Biology is a big field. There's a million things I could be doing."  
  
The three exchange glances over the coffee table. Hunk sets down his textbook carefully on the table and folds his hands in his lap. "Well," he says, quietly, "what do you like about biology?"

"I don't know."  _ Everything.  _ "A lot."  
  
"Okay," he says patiently. "Anything you've  _ really _ liked since you were a kid? Cells? Plants? Animals?"

"Bugs?" Pidge supplies.

Keith sighs noisily and slouches into the couch deep enough that he can't read his screen anymore. "I don't know."

They sit in abject silence for a few long moments. Lance taps the side of his mug with one fingernail, frowning.

"You know," he says slowly, "you don't have to know what you want immediately, right? There's still plenty of time." 

Keith raises an eyebrow. "Is there? I only have, what, eight quarters before I graduate—" 

"That's plenty of time. If you're just staying in biology, a lot of the classes overlap, right?" He bites his lip, eyes flickering from his tea to Keith's face. "If you really aren't sure, we can share classes next quarter. Try out some marine mammals. Maybe you'll like it." 

"Lance is right," Hunk says. "And even if you  _ do  _ graduate without a specific focus.. at least you sort of know what you want, right? There's always time to change somewhere down the line. You don't have to rush into something you don't want." 

"That's how you end up stuck in a field you hate," Pidge adds. "So maybe don't do that." 

Keith stares up at the ceiling. There's a visible line of dust under one of the high-up windows above the balcony, thick enough that he can see tiny motes swirling as the open balcony air riles them up and away. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out as slowly as he can, feeling the steady shrinking of his lungs, the pressure of his diaphragm squeezing out all of the tightness in his chest into the room.

It had seemed so easy, coming in. He didn't know what he wanted when he left Arizona, only had enough sense to recognize that he had to escape his tiny trailer-park town, had to go out and find somewhere where he was  _ useful,  _ doing something that he loved. He knew he loved life itself and all of the tiny mechanizations that constructed it, and fully believed that would be enough.

But college isn't a single-shot. He's made friends here, made ties deep enough that he'll carry them out into the real world, and there are so many niches to explore that he doesn't know how he'll possibly be able to touch them all and  _ decide. _

_ There’s always time to change. _

He licks his lips, eyes flickering from his housemates to Pidge, who's set down her computer to focus on him.

He swallows. "Could I.." She leans in further and nods, eyes serious. "Could I get some help? With my classes?"

"Of course." Hunk smiles wide, baring straight, square teeth, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like a warm quilt, filling his face with light. "Of course we can." 

 

They sit back a half hour before Keith's enrollment time and look over the tiny schedule they've created, classes carefully picked to expand over a range of material that would still count for a number of biology majors.  _ Animal physiology. Entomology and a supplementary lab. _

There's just enough time-space for Pidge to slip him into her GE class as well, with a matching section. If Keith makes any sort of face over that class resting in his shopping cart, she doesn't comment on it; she's all smiles, all teeth and gleaming brown eyes, pouring him another cup of tea without asking.

_ You've got nothing but time. _

.

He dreams in shades of grey.

The cold, porcelain curvature of their bathtub is something he's long grown acquainted with. He sits on the edge during his showers to think, or props up a leg to slide soap over his calves. It's the dip that encases him in hot water and steam, the slope that serves as a wall between him and the cool exposure of the bathroom tile, ready to take on condensation and leftover droplets with flat, smooth palms.

Where the shower screen would typically be tugged up to the wall there’s open space, a window out into the open. Anyone passing could see him in here, soaking in water that has no temperature, no floating suds to cover his bare skin. He isn't worried, though; the only ones that will come to meet him make him feel safe.

For once, he is at peace with being laid bare.

Out of the darkness of the hallway  _ he  _ comes, wet and warm and woolly, inky black drifting through the grooves of tile like a spilled drink. The shape of him has no beginning and no end; he is smoke on the wind, an immovable, undulating mass that carries no sharp edges.

When he touches the bath water's surface, it doesn’t break. The darkness flattens itself over the top of the water like hovering fog on a river, tasting the droplets but never delving completely. It shivers and slides up the walls inside the shower, curling itself to blanket around the showerhead, hanging from part of the ceiling like a spiderweb.

He casts one hand out over the water and feels his finger thread through, trailing over indiscernible heat and satin-smooth silence.

**_SaFE._ **

_ Yes, _ he thinks.  _ I am. _

Steadily, he begins to go through the motions of washing himself. The body wash that oozes through his fingers tingles as he presses it to his skin, rubbing suds over his arms and shoulders, lifting his legs to reach his calves. The darkness hovers just beyond his reach, ever careful not to touch him where it's unsolicited, curling and wavering with the steam coming off the bath. The whole room feels warm and humid, like a cocoon.

When he moves on to wash his hair, though, he senses the shadows perking to attention; one inky trail splinters off from the rest and extends like a tree branch to hover over his soapy, tangled hair.

He blinks up at it. The shadow hangs in the air, trailing downward as if in question.

_ Go ahead _ , he tells it.  _ I don't mind. _

Carefully, so carefully, as if it fears it might break the bubble they're suspended within, the darkness trickles onto the first, slick follicles of his hair. It slides over the slippery mass, reaching outward in steady, even strokes, plucking at a hair here and fiddling with frothy suds there. It seems to marvel over how the hair stays wherever it's drawn out, stuck in odd cowlicks with the gel-like consistency the shampoo offers, and after a moment of brief experimentation, snaps forward and back to leave soapy horns in his hair.

_ Like antennae,  _ he thinks, and the darkness shivers with delight.

The shadows rescind enough to let him sink into the water and rinse himself before applying conditioner. This again, it seems all too happy to help with—if he didn't know any better, he might have imagined it was laughing to itself. His hair flops in all directions under its ministrations, twirling this way and that as dark tendrils rubbed at his scalp.

But all baths must come to an end somehow. Soon the bathwater is nothing but tepid, sudsy rinse, and he is clean from head to toe. Gingerly he stands, preparing to wade over and pull the plug, cringing as the air hits his wet skin and raises goosebumps.

_ Thump. _

_ Who..?  _ He stands frozen. There's movement flickering from underneath the bathroom door—odd soft light and trembling shadows different from the darkness—and as he watches, another  _ thump  _ echoes closer.

The shadows on the ceiling slither across the plaster for the door, gliding with an ease that belies the way his heart suddenly picks up in pace. Careful not to slip, he steps out onto the cool tile and scrambles for a towel, but his efforts aren't fast enough to fully cover himself before the door clicks open and swings wide, baring bright light and curious, almond eyes that he would know anywhere.

_ You're not supposed to be here!  _ He thinks frantically. His whole body flushes pink and his fingers tremble where they fumble to wrap the towel around his waist.

The man at the door covers his face with one hand, his own mouth slack. He can see how his lips frantically form an apology he can't hear, over and over, but his voice echoes in his brain all the same.

_ Sorry—I didn't mean—I'm sorry I— _

Keith’s eyes snap open. The smiley face stares back, frozen in its devil-may-care grin. Somewhere next to his temple his phone continues to buzz, screaming an 8am alarm.

"Oh shit," he breathes.

.

In consideration of all the terrors that walk his nights, a hike during the day seems like a piece of cake. There are no ambiguous shapes under trees backlit by sun, no red eyes to watch his movements or echoing voices to clamor in his head. He is utterly himself, sunburned and sunbathed, slick with sweat and dirt, tramping through the forest with a water bottle in his fist.

"How far until we make it?" Pidge huffs. Her green sweatband does little to soak in the perspiration at her temples or dotting across the pores of her nose. He might laugh at how pink she is if he weren't sure that he looks exactly the same. "Everything seems to take less time in the dark."

"A couple minutes, max," Matt calls back. He checks his watch casually, as if his own shoulders aren't gently heaving under the daylight. "We should get there right at three-thirty."

"It would have taken less time," Shiro reminds him patiently, "if you hadn't decided we needed to take the long way around. Remind me again why we needed to do that?"

"Atmosphere,  _ atmosphere _ ," Matt says, waving them away with one hand. “When you three come out into the woods you're never around to appreciate it—there are hundreds,  _ thousands _ of species that collaborate out here, living in utter harmony, and you all miss it when you wander in the dark. I'm doing you a favor. Think of it as a grand tour, if you will."  
  
"You're not the one who used to go running around here every day," Shiro retorts. Matt simply scoffs and pushes on ahead.

The hike hadn't been Keith's idea. Not that he was going to stay indoors for the rest of his life, but wandering around when they knew a homicidal monster roamed these parts seemed idiotic in the least. The others hadn't taken no for an answer, though.

_ Live a little _ , Matt had said, as if he didn't know exactly what monsters were capable of.  _ We have to celebrate the end of midterms somehow, right? And it's only during the day. We'll be back before nightfall. Why would I lead you into danger anyway? _

_ He's right,  _ Shiro had chimed in, though he hadn’t met Keith’s eyes all morning. He stared past him and spoke softly, a flush to his cheeks.  _ Matt's the guru of these woods. If anything is off, he'll be the first to know. _

_ A large statement to make _ , Keith thinks, but he holds his tongue. The weather's been too ugly lately to make excuses for hiding inside when the sun peeks out briefly; they gather their things together early in the morning and start the trek out at one, when the heat of the day is past its peak.

Really, hiking up the mountainside, he can't hold onto his misgivings for long. The sun does its best to dodge and weave cloud cover, warm rays bursting down on their skin before it ducks away again, keeping the temperature comfortable without being overwhelmingly hot. The flush in Keith's cheeks is more from exertion than anything else; though they're careful to follow even straight paths in the dark, daytime allows for Matt to take them everywhere across the open land.

They stop at a creek here, climb a ravine there to hang in the shade of old oaks. The terrain is wild and beautiful, leaves splayed in deep emerald shades from the thicker moisture they've been gifted with lately. Though the earth can't stay wet for long, the cool, rich smell of it overtakes any unpleasant flavors on the tongue.

The clearing serves less as a destination and more the furthest point in their roundabout journey. Pidge plunks herself down on the first log she sees and whips out her water bottle, squirting its contents over her face haphazardly. Beside her, Matt looks on.

Keith follows Shiro quietly into the center of the clearing. In the daytime, the open earth here looks warm and dry, easy to sprawl out and nap in. Trailing shadows of treetops don't exist in this moment—everything is bathed in shades of red and green, rich and warm enough to cocoon their lungs in spice.

Shiro takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He turns and smiles, lopsided.

"I don't know what I expected, to be honest. It looks the same."  
  
Keith silently regards the tears in the earth where wingtips have churned the soil free. He shrugs, noncommittal.

Even though the clearing provides no protection from the elements, the foliage surrounding is even and thick enough that they can sprawl out under the treeline. Keith passes his trail mix bag to Pidge and watches her pluck out the raisins and chocolate to eat. As fair trade, she dumps a sandwich baggie of the last pistachios into his lap.

His mouth quirks at the corners despite himself.  _ Pistachios. _

Pidge pauses with her hand halfway to her mouth. "What?"

"Nothing." He plucks one seed free and balances it between his thumbs. “Just..”

There are a million things that have changed, from one pistachio to the next. He slides his fingers along the curved, rigid edge of the shell and marvels again over how his life has changed in the span of a month and a half. Really, how is he ever supposed to settle with this as the new normal?

_ The world is full of surprises,  _ he thinks grimly, and splits the shell in half with a resounding  _ snap. _

By the time they manage to rouse themselves from their afternoon haze, the sun has dipped back behind its clouds again, leaving the forest suddenly, oddly cool. With evening approaching, the winds off the sea are beginning to trail up the mountainside, whistling along the cooled sweat at Keith's nape, sending goosebumps rising where it traces over dampened skin.

This late into the season there are few bugs left to buzz about. Even so, the stillness that overtakes the forest settles in Keith's gut, a quiet that feels thick enough to nearly be tangible. If the others sense the same unease none of them dwell on it, but the pace of their trek steadily picks up until Pidge is nearly jogging down the side of a ravine.

"Careful," Shiro reminds her, keeping pace with Keith. "You don't want to slip."

Keith chances a quick glance at the sky. The afternoon is purpling rapidly, bruising into night hues that spread dread like paint over the open sky.

"We need to hurry," he says, striding forward. "Before.."

"I know," Matt replies briskly. "We're about halfway there. If we need to we can just cut to the north road and follow it around, but—"   
"That won't be necessary." Keith swallows, licking salt from his lips. "We just need to move faster."

But moving fast isn't enough. Undergrowth lashes at their ankles; branches whip at their exposed shoulders. Keith stumbles over a hidden stump and elbows Shiro's back. There's nothing but the racket of their own breathing, their own stomping. Keith's heartbeat ticks faster under his skin into a frantic rhythm.

"No worries," Matt calls. "We're almost—"

**_YOU LOSE._ **

The trees explode apart so fast that there's no time to breathe. Keith stumbles and falls down the side of the ravine, all the air squeezed from his lungs. Branches and thorny bushes whip at his skin, scraping his sweaty skin raw; he opens his mouth to yell and tastes bitter mud and earth, cramming onto his dry tongue, pressing at the soft flesh in his mouth.

Behind him Pidge screams loud enough to puncture an eardrum—there's a hoarse yell that's unmistakably  _ Shiro  _ and Matt shouting over them both, breath puncturing out in shallow gasps—

Keith rolls over onto his back and spits out dirt. The world is spinning, teetering on an edge thin enough that it might shatter into a million pieces, he's not  _ ready  _ for this—

His gaze flits frantically over the greenery and lands on a huge, hulking white figure.

_ No. _

The shadows of the evening are long, but nothing is dark enough to blanket the way wings stretch wide, frosted and speckled with black flecks, big enough to disturb the still, silent trees. Huge, black eyes gleam as fuzzy jaws open and an awful, garbled groan echoes into the air.

And then Keith's eyes flit to the writhing mass clenched in its arms and realizes its  _ Shiro,  _ stunned with his eyes wide open, just beginning to shift under flexing, muscular arms— 

The mothman above him groans louder before swinging its maw down and biting straight into Shiro's side.

To his dying day, Keith will never forget the sound he makes.

He moves without even thinking. The world falls away, narrowing to a single point where Shiro twists and screams, eyes streaming tears, mouth dripping with spit that chokes him. The white moth above him moves its mouth back and drips fresh blood from its jaws, splattering its own, hairy face with scarlet. It almost looks as if it’s laughing.

_ "Get away from him!" _

He moves over the uneven ground as if he were flying. His hands reach out and grip the first thing within reach—a wing, thin and fuzzy, veins cool under his fingers—and  _ yanks _ as hard as he can.

The mothman lets go of Shiro with one arm to lash out, punching Keith square in the chest. Instantly all the breath is knocked out of him, his lungs deflating like popped balloons, pain radiating out in all directions like the slow-motion shattering of a window punctured by a single bullet.

Down he goes, knees buckling until he's facedown in the dirt again, desperately gasping for air. He can feel the slime of  _ that man  _ clinging to his insides like oil, warm and impure, oozing into the white-hot of his brain.

**_SsstAY OUT of thIS._ **

Shiro won't stop moaning. His pitiful noises gurgle through the air as the mothman groans again, rattling like every noise is its last. Somewhere far away Keith can hear someone sobbing, pitiful and small.

His limbs refuse to hold him up but he has to  _ try.  _ He sucks in breath after breath, summoning his will from deep inside himself, a fire so hot, so blindingly bright and all-consuming that it threatens to melt his heart inside his ribs. He sticks out one arm and sinks his nails into the dirt and  _ pushes. _

He has to get up. He  _ has  _ to.

Inside his brain the oil continues to slosh and froth, slopping over the clean interior of his thoughts to stain everything. This darkness is different from the soft, cottony brush of the other—Keith grits his teeth until his jaw aches, curling his brain inside itself, desperate to hide away from the invasive slither, but the dark continues to roil out and stain everything. Two darknesses intermingling, mixing in his head until there's nothing  _ but  _ them echoing one another like mirror images overlapped, odd and synchronous.

_ Two moons. Two sides. _

And he sees, he  _ sees _ , and the truth of it is so confusing that it tangles in a huge, snarled knot inside of his brain, inky and messy, splattering blackness everywhere like flinging wet paint.

He forces himself up onto his knees. His heart is beating so hard that it threatens to spill out from behind his lips and squish into the soil. His head  _ hurts,  _ a splintering ache as he sees Shiro gasp and bleed, begging wordlessly for help, but the darkness inside Keith's brain is threatening to split his skull into a thousand shards of bone.

The slip of one voice over another. The ink on his hands blooming again here he can't see it, reaching up his skin to dye his soul black, staining him further and further as it bubbles from Shiro's lips, from his gaping wound, oozing and mixing with blood into a dark soup.

_ Get up,  _ he screams at himself.  _ Get up,  _ get up—

_ "Keith! Watch out!" _

Hands press his shoulders down and tackle him sideways into the bushes. It's Pidge, tiny hands trembling where they grip vice-like around the collar of his flannel, eyes huge behind her askew glasses. Her lips are shaking, moving to say words he can't hear, hair hanging forward to brush at her freckled cheeks.

But he's not looking at her anymore, because past one shoulder there's a giant log swinging through the air, whistling towards the mothman's head at an impossible speed, and connected to it is—

_ Is— _

The log misses at the last second and goes flying into the underbrush. The white mothman, forced to drop Shiro to protect itself, flits back until it can land sideways on a tree trunk. It stares at the huge, hairy creature and groans at earsplitting volume, blood and ink pouring from its mouth onto its chest. Droplets splatter into the greenery below.

Keith stares open-mouthed. Pidge is speaking frantically in his ear but he can't hear her over the heavy static buzzing in his brain.

"That's—" he croaks. " _ That's— _ "

The creature stands on two legs, but they're the biggest, hairiest legs Keith has ever seen. 

In a stance square enough to take an oncoming bullet train, the beast spreads its palms wide and  _ snarls _ , revealing rows of slavering, white teeth. Its arms bulge with huge, corded muscles—muscles big enough to rival mothman's own, even surpass them. It’s  _ massive,  _ and absolutely covered in thick, dark hair.

Keith may not be a cryptid expert by a long shot but he knows Bigfoot when he sees him.

Paralyzed, he can only watch as the two monsters scream and propel themselves towards one another, hands and wings suddenly caught in a furious battle neither look ready to lose. Shiro's mangled body is left to cool in the undergrowth, oozing lifeblood steadily into the earth. He doesn't move.

"—have to get him out of here," Pidge hisses near his ear. " _ Keith. _ "

She shoves past him and scrambles in a low crouch for Shiro, falling to her knees beside him. There are twigs sticking out of her hair and tears flowing freely down her cheeks, and when she turns to nod at Keith, he realizes she's waiting for him to come help lift his body.

The mothman's head whips around and it buzzes furiously at them but doesn't have a moment to spare; Bigfoot refuses to let up for even a second, meaty hands reaching to rip arms and wings and antennae from its body. They fall over one another, fighting away from the ravine deeper into the forest.

Keith stumbles over the uneven earth until he can fall beside Shiro's torso. Pidge has his head cradled in her lap, fingers running from his lips to his jugular, pressing in to test for a pulse.

He slides his own hands over one outstretched palm. The skin feels dry and warm, feverish.

But he's  _ alive _ . Pidge nods at him in affirmation, fingers brushing over one of his shoulders before pulling away. Somehow, Shiro's managed to hold on and survive—but for how long?

_ Don't think that way,  _ he scolds himself, blinking away sudden tears.  _ It's not going to happen. I _ won't _ let it happen. _

There's nowhere to go. They're too far from campus to drag his body all the way there—too far for even Keith to run and get help. Matt's encampment feels as if it could be miles from them, too. What are they supposed to  _ do? _

"Shiro," he whispers, dragging himself up closer to Shiro's face. His eyes are closed, breathing shallow, but the whistle of air between his lips is unmistakable. " _ Shiro. _ "

"I'm going to make a call," Pidge murmurs. Her hands shake so hard that it takes four tries to open her miniature backpack. Keith had forgotten she was even wearing one. "Keep trying to wake him up, okay? Just—just stay calm."  
  
As if it were that easy. Keith swallows around the painful lump in his throat, swallows the shards of glass scraping at his lungs. Shiro looks so small and pale, half-covered in earth and dead leaves. The hole in his side gleams wetly, ink and blood staining most of his shirt.

Keith tears his eyes away. The hole exposes torn muscle and odd insides that he doesn't want to dwell on.

"Mom?" Pidge sucks in a shaky breath and squeezes her eyes shut. Keith freezes, one hand squeezing Shiro's warm fingers. There are tears beginning to slip faster down her face, dripping off of her chin. " _ Mom.  _ It's me—it's happening again, I—I—"

She sucks in a deep breath, wet and panicky, and opens her eyes to focus on Keith's face. Whatever she sees there stills her hands.

"It's Shiro. He's hurt again. Can you be here in twenty minutes?" She stares down at his face, taking in the beading of sweat at his temples, and bites her lip. "What about fifteen? I—okay. Yeah. Okay."  
  
"Your mom?" Keith asks, when she's hung up. "Pidge, what—"  
  
"Just trust me." Brown eyes, solemn as he's ever seen them, bore into his own. "You have to trust me on this Keith. Can you do that?"

_ Can  _ he? Pidge sits steadfast, barely a tremble in her lips while Shiro shivers on the ground and pours out his essence into the dirt. Demons of the night—creations that he's never believed to be true, animals that have only existed in the peripheral of human civilization—have come alive and run free, battling for their own right to exist, and they sit here, Shiro's feverish, gory form between them, and Pidge’s expression is exhausted as if this has happened before.

_ He’s hurt again. _

There's so much to take in.  _ So  _ much. The shelf he’s made on his back, higher and higher, is finally cracking and beginning to sag. He doesn’t have enough in him to hold it up alone, to patch everything together and stay balanced himself.

There's nothing left to do. Shiro's life is not his own to keep—and there are answers Pidge has to give. For all of their sakes.

"I'll explain everything eventually," she whispers, as if reading his mind—she always was so good at doing that. "Please, Keith. Just trust me for right now."

He stares at her. His hands, sweaty around Shiro's fingers, slip free for the briefest moments. He places one palm on her knee, feels the gentlest shake there.

"..I—Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes." He stares her in the eye. "I trust you."

 

Pidge's mom arrives after what could have been ten minutes or ten years. She’s incredibly slim, a waifish woman with a short bob that almost looks like Pidge's. In one hand she carries a flashlight bright enough to fill the shadows with burning blue frequencies, hyper-bright and retina-burning. In the other hand is a white clinic box.

She doesn't even look at them. The second she sees Shiro, the blank expression on her face slips and her brows crease together, mouth falling open. She almost seems to be in tears.

She slumps to her knees, nudging aside Keith where he still grips Shiro's hand. He feels stiff and numb, a gargoyle taking vigil over his grounds, and his fingers slip from the man's grasp after she bodily removes him from his place.

"How long?" She says tersely. One hand presses at his jugular, taking stock of his pulse, before she snaps open the kit. Her eyes rake over his form and focus on the bloody hole in his side which, in the past twenty minutes, has slowed in bleeding and begun to ooze even more ink. "How long has he been like this?"

"Just the past couple minutes," Pidge says softly. Her momentary strength stolen out of her muscles, she slouches back next to Shiro's head and watches her mother fiddle through the kit's little compartments. "We were afraid to move him."

"I don't have much to help him here." Brown eyes slide, calculating and intense, over the wound in Shiro's side. "This is too big for us to handle away from the garage."  
  
"Did you park nearby?"

"There's a small meadow I pulled the truck into downstream." She purses her lips and pulls out scissors, cutting at the shirt until it peels away from Shiro's skin completely. " _ Oh. _ "

The bite is even uglier without cloth covering it. The flesh around it swells, red and raised, already bearing signs of what looks like infection; the veins surrounding the muscle stand out in sharp relief under Shiro's skin, dark against his pale skin, and the darkness of what could be bruising or something else extends further, swathing his whole side in discoloring.

The bite itself tore away the layers of skin and exposed the muscle beneath, and without heavy bleeding, Keith can see the physical layering of muscle tissue exposed to the open air. The top of it gleams oddly, as if a thin layer of purple glaze has been applied.

General biology student's basic courses mix with anatomy and cell biology, but Keith has never heard of anything like this. It's unnatural. It's—

"It's happening again," Pidge's mom breathes. Her brow furrows deeper, lines around her eyes sharpening against the shadows thrown by her flashlight. "Oh, God."

"What's going on?" He says, throat tight. He can hardly swallow enough to breathe. " _ What's happening to him?" _

"He's—healing himself," the woman murmurs. "The cryptid inside him is fusing itself with his flesh to reconstruct his body. But it's having trouble—we need to move him back to the house where all the proper medicines can be applied to the wound. His body is undergoing incredible amounts of metabolic overload and stress, it's a miracle that he's still breathing."

"How long until we can move him?"

"At the rate he's going? Anywhere from another half hour to two hours." She pauses, licking her lips. "Unless we can kickstart the fusing process.. but we'll need some sort of stimulant to do that." Her eyes flick up to him, and then to Pidge. "What's his energy source?"

Pidge's fingers curl tight into an open tear in her jeans. Her mouth pinches, turning down hard enough that her chin wrinkles. She looks like she might be sick.

"Blood," she whispers. "But—"

"I'll do it," Keith says immediately.

" _ Keith—" _

"What do I need to do?" He stares Pidge's mother in the eye. "How do I give it to him?"

Pidge's mother meets his gaze. "We can take a sample the old-fashioned way," she finally says after a long moment. "I'll give you a wipe to clean yourself with. Pidge, get out the needles."  
  
They make quick work filling a small vial with Keith's blood. He stares at it dully, noting how much brighter it seems compared to the soup running in Shiro's veins.

"We'll just pour it down the hatch," Pidge's mom says grimly. "And pray for a miracle at this point that your blood types are compatible."

Keith shuffles around to prop up Shiro's head, just enough for the vial to slip through his lips and let gravity do the rest. The blood stains his lips garish red, mixing with the darkness like swirling watercolors.

"And then what?" He doesn't tear his gaze from Shiro's mouth, bringing one hand forward to wipe the leftover liquid away. "How long do we wait?"

"I don't know. My expertise doesn't lie with his kind." She pauses, tucking the used needle into a little box. "A couple of minutes, maybe less."

For a woman who appears to be a doctor of some sort, Pidge's mother does surprisingly little and says even less. They wait for Shiro to stir in silence, hands tense over scraped, exposed knees, eyes unmoving from his body. The trees stir with wind, but Keith hears nothing of the fight that passed over his head—it's as if the forest has swallowed the monsters whole and left nothing behind but fragments of their madness to pick up.

But then, as a cloud passes in front of the full moon, Shiro shudders full-body. He parts his lips to let a bubble of ink burst free, and groans.

"Shiro!" Keith sucks in a shaky breath and feels tears prickle anew in his eyes. His whole head aches something fierce, swallowed feelings and raging thoughts clamoring for attention, but it all clears for just a moment when Shiro opens his eyes.

"Hey," he whispers. His voice is scraped raw.

"Hey yourself," Keith chokes. The wetness in his eyes splashes forth freely, dripping down filthy cheeks. "You—you—"  
  
"Sshh." Shiro licks his lips, winces at the taste. "It's.. all gonna be OK."  
  
"I should be the one telling you that," Keith says, but his heart flies free from his chest and takes his fears with it, up and away.

_ Shiro's going to be OK. _

"Look." Pidge's mother points.

The faint, lavender sheen over Shiro's guts already is beginning to thicken into a deeper violet, spreading into a paste that seems to ooze from his very cells and coat the whole mess. As they watch, Shiro takes in a soft, hesitant breath, pulling the muscles of his torso about, but the paste sticks firm.

"It hurts," he murmurs. "Does—does it look bad?"

Keith tears his gaze away. "You're going to be fine. I promise."  
  
Shiro's lips pull down, his weak smile twisting into something tired and drawn. He barely has the strength to move one arm, fingers twitching over the dirt to nudge Keith's thigh; one thumb settles over his scraped, dirty knuckles and presses there, gently rubbing over skin.

"I feel weird," he admits, after a long moment of silence. "Like.. there's more of  _ him _ inside my head, now." He closes his eyes. "I can hear him moving around in there—it's like the first time."  
  
Keith stiffens. "The.. first time?"

But if Shiro hears him, he doesn't choose to go any further. He blinks his eyes open again and gazes tiredly past Keith to Pidge's mother.

"Colleen," he says, quietly. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be silly." She pulls out a thick wrap of gauze and begins unrolling it carefully, refusing to meet his eyes. "This is the last thing you should be apologizing about."  
  
"But I promised—"  
  
"You didn't break it. It's alright, Takashi." She nods to Keith. "Can you and Katie hold him up? I need to wrap his side before we move him."

Keith half-expects Shiro to completely fall apart the second they prop up his back but he only lets out the faintest of wheezes, eyes closing to squeeze tightly with strain. His breath comes out in short, staccato gasps as Pidge's mother works fast, wrapping around his middle to hold the ooze in on the wound.

"The car isn't too far from here, but I can't get any closer." She snaps the kit shut with brisk, steady fingers. "We're going to have to move him into a walk. Can you do that, Takashi?"

He grimaces, fingers tentatively brushing the top of the gauze. "I'll do my best."  
  
It takes several painfully-long minutes to work him into sitting up, then standing. Pidge's mother rushes away into the darkness with the kit tucked under one arm, her flashlight sliding over the shadows as she heads ahead of them. Pidge's own flashlight-headband is pulled out of her bag and strapped to her head, lighting the way as they fumble over uneven ground.

Shiro does his best to keep good face, but Keith can feel the way he tenses with every step, fingers digging into his right shoulder with enough force to bruise.

"Easy," he murmurs in his ear. "You'll be OK. Everything is going to be OK."

True to her word, Pidge's mother has managed to pull into an open clearing off the roadside. The truck's light pierce the darkness even better than her flashlight, bright enough for them to pick their way to the backseat door.

Getting into the car is an effort in itself. Keith pulls him up from the inside while Pidge supports his back but it's still not enough; as they help him into his seat Shiro lets out a low groan, hands scrambling over the seat. His skin is blisteringly hot to the touch.

"Let's go," Pidge says, slipping into the passenger seat through the center console. Keith buckles himself next to Shiro and holds his hand, fingers squeezing hard enough to feel their mismatched heartbeats. "We'll meet Matt back at the house."  
  
Keith blinks. He had nearly forgotten Pidge's brother in the midst of Shiro's struggle—hadn't even considered about how he'd disappeared immediately after Keith had fallen down the ravine. "Where'd he go?"

Pidge and her mother exchange a grim look.   
  
"There's a lot you need to know," her mother says, snapping the truck into reverse. "But I'm not the one to tell you."  
  
"I already told him everything I could," Shiro pipes up hoarsely. "He's got my side. I wasn't going to tell him.. what wasn't mine."  
  
Pidge stares out the passenger window, her wan expression reflected in the glass. The truck bumps and crunches over undergrowth as they funnel back out the way they came in, rattling gently as it trips over bushes and stones.

"We'll see Matt at the house," she repeats. "It's time you knew everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, crouching from behind the bushes: I don't think that woman's ever been to medical school
> 
>  
> 
> leave a comment or come ask me stuff on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/) if you wanna


	14. Of Monsters And Moths

When Keith first met Pidge, he'd immediately known she was somebody special. There was no way to turn away from her, tiny as she was; even at a measly five-foot-one, clad in pajamas and a _Believe_ t-shirt, the intensity of her gaze pierced him straight through the gut once he chanced to look at her. All it took was a single conversation and he knew he was pinned permanently.

The choice hadn't been his at the time, but he never resented her for it. Pidge wasn't noisy and overbearing the way Lance could be, never pressed harder than he wanted her to unless it was absolutely necessary. She was the silent offer of snacks after a miserable midterm or the quiet hand on his shoulder when his birthday passed without an email from his aunt. She was the one coaxing him out of his room to watch movies, to go on walks, to eat sugary cereal at one in the morning while _Aliens_ reran on TV. She was the center of his social life at Garrison University and he wouldn't have it any other way.

She was _Pidge._

It's easy enough to accept people for who they are at face value. He knew from the moment he stepped into her room that she believed the way other people didn't, saw intricacies in government plans and holes in logic that a regular person had no way of singling out. She was an oddity, awake in the night in hopes of catching the supernatural at her window, on the internet, behind a camera lens.

He had always figured her hyperfixation with cryptids was because she had an urge to explain the unexplained. It was in her nature as a scientist to ask questions and find answers.

He had never considered her finding answers _before_ she started her research.

Keith contemplates this as they pull up into the driveway of the Holt's rural cabin. Living out here in the forest would have made cryptid research easy; there were no prying eyes around for miles, no neighbors to peep into the shed or ask questions about the odd sounds at night. They were utterly alone.

Pidge's mother—Colleen, Shiro had called her—kills the gas and peeks into the backseat at the two of them. Her eyes trail from Keith's white-knuckled grip on his door to his other hand clenched tightly around Shiro's fingers before resting on Shiro's pale, sweaty complexion. The grim lines around her mouth soften somewhat.

"How are you feeling?" She asks, voice soft in the sudden silence of the car.

Shiro shifts in his seat and exhales in a long hiss. "I've.. been better."  
  
"We're going to move you just a bit more, alright? Just to the garage right there. Can you make it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Her lips quirk up into a tired smile. "I'm afraid not."

It takes another painstaking ten minutes to finagle Shiro's body out the back doors and up the sidewalk. The garage is shut tight and bears no windows though Keith can see a closed skylight overhead. The metal block bears a single door made of steel, adorned with both a padlock and a number pad that glows oddly green in the darkness.

"Couldn't risk anything getting inside," Colleen says by way of explanation. She punches in a sequence and snaps open the lock in a single, fluid motion, and gestures for them to follow inside.

Having seen Frankenstein once or twice through Pidge's pushing, the inside of the garage shouldn't surprise him as much as it does. Maps and unintelligible graphs cover one entire wall, as do whiteboard surfacing blanketed in awful, looping scrawl. Cabinets bearing heavy locks are crammed in on either side along with a desk with swivel chair, several mini-fridges, and a number of odd, wired contraptions with sharp ends that Keith doesn't want to ponder over. The temperature is suddenly chilly as the door slams behind them, spiking goosebumps across his skin where the air conditioning trickles down his rumpled shirt.

Colleen doesn't waste any time. She snaps on a number of overhead fluorescent lights with a switchboard and shoves wheeled trays out of the way to clear a path to a table. There's a thin, paper pad on it, and a folded blanket at the foot. Keith is immediately reminded of hospital check-up beds.

"Lay down here," she instructs, moving past the table to set down her kit. There's another, heftier ring of keys on the counter that she picks up; though all the keys look exactly the same, she picks through them one by one with practiced ease, opening up cabinets by their according locks. The whole process, though intricate, takes less than a minute.

Though they help him maneuver through the clutter, Shiro only needs support on one of Keith's arms to hoist himself onto the table. The pinch in his brow betrays his pain, but there are no major outbursts—signs of his recovery, though invisible, that already are making themselves clear.

"First things first," Colleen says. "I'm going to hook you up to an IV, okay? It's to support your body as it goes through hyper-metabolism and repairs itself. The cryptid inside you subsists off of blood, I know, but.." She coughs. "We don't have any blood bags lying around yet. And I don't think you'd want to drink it straight?"

Shiro looks positively green. "No, thank you."

"I didn't think so." She waves a hand behind her in their direction. "Katie, please set up the heart rate monitor and other vital systems. I know you've got the main board figured out already."  
  
"How did you find out?" Pidge mutters, but skirts the table to fiddle with some machinery. "I was so careful."  
  
Colleen stops in her cabinet-searching to fix her daughter with a dry look. "I'm your mother. You don't think I don't have my own precautions against young ladies snooping in my work desks?"

Keith coughs, shifting awkwardly at Shiro's side. Not that he expected to get answers immediately, but..

"Oh, Keith." Colleen ducks under the counter to hook up some wires into an outlet. "The mini fridge over next to the desk. Can you get some waters out?"

There's nothing to do in this situation but follow orders, loathe as he is to flounder about with so many things unanswered. Keith slips his way between two randomly-placed cabinets over to the desk. Papers are scattered across it in a wild, heaping mess, but at the very edge of the desk, across an invisible line where nothing crosses, is a framed photo. It depicts all four Holts on some old family ski trip, Pidge beaming with a missing front tooth.

His gaze travels from the framed photo to the bulletin board spanning the wall. Most of the writing on it is utterly unintelligible—written in a script that doesn't even appear human, at a second glance—but the pinned photos are all labeled as areas he recognizes.

_Garrison State Park. Crooked Elbow Stream. GU remote parking lot #5._

Each one shows a bit of scenery, but the focal point remains spots of gleaming gore that turn his stomach. Torn-open rabbits, smeared trails of _something_ dark and thick. His eyes slide across the photos and settle on what appears to be the newest one, its label written in red ink.

_Garrison State Park, Location 76._

He squeezes the water bottle in his fist tight enough to nearly pop it open.

When he finally makes it back to the table, Shiro's arm is hooked up to an IV. Colleen is busy with scissors, carefully cutting away the quick bandaging from earlier. Pidge stands off to the side and observes the monitors, her scratched face pale and tired.

"When's Matt coming back?" He asks, passing the bottle to Shiro. He tips his head back and chugs the water fast enough to probably be painful, condensation dripping onto his bandages. "Pidge?"

"Soon," she says softly. Her eyes are frozen to the monitor. "He always comes back within the hour."

 _Always._ The faith the Holts have in Matt—that is, in whatever madness he's tangled himself into—should be disconcerting. In the moment, however, all Keith can feel is relief. Shiro appears to be in safe hands; all they have to do now is wait a little longer and everything will fall into place.

True to their word, a soft tap rings from the doorway after twenty minutes. Shiro can't move from his lying position on the table ( _"No Shiro, it doesn't matter how you feel, we have to be safe on this"_ ) but Pidge immediately leaves his side, scrambling to unlock the door.

Keith doesn't know what he's expecting—stray scratches on his face, a black eye, maybe a bit of a limp—but Matt looks almost entirely unaffected by his encounter. He bears scratches on his cheeks from tripping down the ravine side, but his clothes have been changed and he looks almost completely relaxed, darting eyes aside.

"Did I miss much?" He asks.

"No," she says, fingers reaching up to tug a stray leaf from his hair. "Mom has Shiro covered. His recovery rates are almost matched up with yours."  
  
"Really?" Matt frowns in thought, letting the door slam behind him. He looks from Shiro to the mass of wiring that makes up the total-body monitoring system. "That's.. unexpected."

"We don't know what to make of it," Colleen admits. "By all logic he should be healing at the same rate as.." She pauses, casting a fleeting glance Keith's way. "The first time."  
  
Keith frowns. "Is he having trouble?"

Colleen shakes her head. "On the contrary. See this graph here?" She points to one of the monitors, bright blue on white, feeding a continuous wave. "That's a general measure of his internal cell growth rate. It's much too high to be a human's and that's expected, but Shiro's is also double the rate that it was the first time we brought him to the lab. He's somehow gotten twice as strong."  
  
"Not me," Shiro murmurs. " _Him_."

A sudden, heavy silence presses over all of them.

"So," Keith says, dragging his eyes from the monitor. He stares each Holt in the eye, one by one, and lands last on Matt. "You promised me an explanation. You all did."  
  
"We did," Pidge agrees. Even though she's baby-faced and soft for her age, the low, graveled shift in tone echoes someone far older. "We did, didn't we?"

"The first time," he clarifies, just to have it straight. "All of it."  
  
Another silence expands to trail his words. The monitors beep in their steady, clinical manner; Colleen coughs into one fist and tips back her own water, drinking a third of the bottle in one go. She tips her head forward to wipe condensation from her lips.

"Go on," she says. "Matt. He needs to hear it from you."  
  
"Right." His lips thin. "Me."

Matt drifts from in front of the monitors over to the bulletin board. Keith doesn't need to follow to know which photograph he's staring at; there's only one in the very center, title written in even script. _Base Clearing #2._ Their usual meet-up spot.

"You've already heard Shiro's half, I'm guessing. But there's no way to remember how you turned into a monster. You just.. _shift._ " He brings up one hand and pinches the photograph's edge between thumb and forefinger. "And then, when you're you again, you can be miles away from where you started.

"It was like that for me." He turns around to look Keith in the eye. "I was fourteen."  
  
_The middle of high school, then._ "Okay," Keith nods, gesturing for him to go on. Matt smiles, tired but not unkind. His eyes slide over Keith's focused expression to rest on the tenseness of Shiro's shoulders behind him.

"I knew exactly what had happened when I found him," he says softly. "He was covered in blood and whatever that gross, purpley stuff he oozes is. I didn't realize until later that he'd almost been completely eaten."  
  
"Eaten? By—" Keith stops.

"Maybe eaten is the wrong word," Matt amends, "but it wasn't too far off the mark. See, whatever Shiro has is completely different from what I have. Our genetic makeup is entirely different—we know so because Pidge reconstructed sequencing and analysis programs onto one of the lab computers." He lets go of the photograph and moves past it, eyes trailing over papers he doesn't see. "I was born to be who I am. Shiro's change was inflicted."  
  
Keith shifts on his feet. "Born..?"

"It's in my genes." Matt's lips twist. "All of ours, actually. The _Cy_ gene—that's what we've called it, see—is passed on the X chromosome. It's been in our family line for centuries, kept right here on the West Coast. How it came to be is a mystery but we've ran enough samples to confirm that it has to map back since the Gold Rush, minimum.

"It's not enough to just have the gene though. You have to undergo some sort of trigger—a traumatic event, usually—in order for it to turn itself on. At that point the body shifts and takes on a new role in times of stress." He runs one hand over the soft hair on his left forearm. His eyes are on Keith but not really seeing him. "Something strong enough to turn fate on its side."  
  
"Bigfoot."  
  
"Yeah. That's what they've liked to call it."

"So then.. if you were fourteen—"

"H1N1. Remember that?" He waits for Keith to nod. "Caught it from a pal of mine at school. I got way sicker than he did, though—sick enough that I couldn't eat, couldn't drink, could barely sleep. My fever was high enough that I should have been hospitalized, but we didn't know until it was too late." He drums his nails against his biceps. "In the middle of the night it took a turn for the worst and hit a peak that would normally cook the human brain, somewhere around 107F?I should have experienced brain damage, but instead..."  
  
"It was enough to change you," Keith murmurs.

Matt cracks a tired grin. "Epigenetics, Keith. Everything boils down to epigenetics." He moves enough papers to hop onto the counter, legs dangling over the edge. Even though he's changed his pants, his hiking boots are still smeared with mud and detritus. "We've managed to keep it under wraps in our family for a decade, but I knew there was no way I could go university far away. Too many bad things could happen, and we're still figuring out everything I can do. Garrison University was the best option."

The picture of Matt Holt's existence is beginning to fuse together from thousands of little pieces. His wariness of city life. His living out in the woods. Pidge's wariness at mentioning that she had a brother at all, even though he lived so close.

"So you live in the woods just in case you have to turn," he says aloud. "As a safety precaution?"

"Bingo." Matt's smile grows a little bigger, a little more crooked. "And doesn't it sound cool, being a guardian of the forest? I'm like some sort of demigod."  
  
"Don't let it go to your head," Pidge mutters. Shiro snorts a laugh and immediately cringes,  feeling the jerk of his fusing muscles.

Keith brushes his fingers against Shiro's knuckles, feeling the scabbing and scratches across his skin. Shiro's mouth twitches with a faint smile, his hand turning over to trail feather-light touches over his palm. Their eyes meet and Keith gives him a soft smile.

"But then," he frowns, tangling his fingers in the spaces of Shiro's hand, "what does that have to do with Shiro?"

"We don't know how to explain it," Shiro says. "The best we can come up with is that he's like a recurring illness. That's how it looks on the tests they run."  
  
"But he's not an illness," Keith argues. "He's his own _—_ " _Person? Thing?_ "Being," he finishes. "He has his own consciousness, doesn't he? And his own morals, and his own memories."  
  
"And he's growing stronger." Pidge punches a few directions into one of the computers. "The concentration of him in your bloodstream has definitely doubled." She bites her lip. "Does.. he feel any different?"

Shiro shifts around on the table. His eyes scrape over the ceiling beams without really seeing them, mouth twisting around words none of them can hear. After a long moment, he finally settles again.

"Yeah." He tilts his head to one side and looks at Keith. "His voice sounds a lot clearer, now. It's like the static's cleared, and—" He stops, eyes widening.

Keith squeezes his fingers tighter. "What? What is it?"

Shiro's gaze slips from Keith's eyes to his lips, and then down to their hands. His brows push together, a tendon in his neck tightening.

"It's him," he mutters. "He.. wants to talk to you."  
  
"But that's.." Keith swallows. He knows better than to finish his sentence. There's no such thing as _impossible_ anymore.

There's a careful line drawn in the dirt between Shiro and Mothman, one scratched deeper and deeper until a trench separated their consciousnesses. Shiro's mentioned him hovering in the back of his mind for months, but to feel him well enough to discern thoughts—

To hear him and speak to him without being asleep, or lost in the light of the full moon—

Keith swallows again. If Mothman has something to say, it has to be important. Monsters don't know inane conversations.

His fingers squeeze around Shiro's. "Okay," he says. "Let me hear him."

Watching Shiro's body shift from one persona to the next is disconcerting, to say the least. He lays back on the table, fingers slipping from Keith's grasp, his whole body relaxing as if falling into a deep sleep. His eyes flutter closed, lips parting, and he lets out a single, soft sigh, as if he's imagined something pleasant.

And then his eyes snap open. They're still brown and almond-shaped, but the irises are ringed in the faintest red, a blood-red stain at the edge of the surface.

His eyes flit over to Keith.

**_Keith._ **

Keith grips the edge of the table hard enough to make his knuckles stand out, bony and white. "I'm here," he croaks, voice suddenly hoarse.

 ** _Keith._** His eyes soften, scraping over Keith's rumpled, bloody shirt and the thin lacerations lacing his exposed arms and face. **_You're.. safe. What a relief._**

Keith immediately recognizes what Shiro meant; where Mothman had always echoed from the edges of his dreams, white noise overlaying and warping his thoughts, there was barely any interference left. The faintest of buzzing tickled behind his ears like a noisy zipper, but other than that, his voice was strong and clear, dark and rich.

 **_I am more_ ** , Mothman says simply. **_I have gained more of myself back._ **

"Back," Keith echoes aloud. He looks up from Shiro—Mothman—to Pidge. "What do you mean you've gained more of yourself back?" Pidge frowns, pausing in her typing.

 **_Exactly what it seems. I am no human, but there is still a limit to being me._ ** His mouth twitches oddly, as if he wants to smile but doesn't know how. **_Humans have.. spirits, yes? It is like that._ **

"You've possessed him." Keith blinks. It makes more sense than it should. How else would the two of them be able to share the same body? It wasn't as if they could share everything; Shiro was whole before Mothman had piggybacked in his flesh. "But.. not completely."  
  
**_No_ ** , Mothman agrees. **_The man in white has the other half of me. He's carried it for a very long time._ **

"The white moth," Keith confirms.

**_Yes._ **

It's not just the static, he realizes. Mothman really _is_ more—more clear, more literate, more put-together. It's as if he's gained a piece of humanity to staple his wayward emotions to, words to piece together the impressions he's brushed against Keith's consciousness for so long.

_He really has become more._

A million questions hover on Keith's tongue. There are so many things he wants to know. How does one come to _be_ Mothman in the first place? How does one split into pieces and come back together again? How does he _exist?_

 **_I don't know much more than you do_ ** **,** Mothman says. Keith almost forgot he could read his mind; the fact that he can do that while Shiro is awake sends a shiver down his spine. It's an unnatural power that no man should ever have, no matter how good they are.

 **_I do not share any more than you would wish me to_ ** _,_ Mothman says, almost affronted. **_Even I know better than to betray trust that way._ **

"But you can do it," Keith whispers.

**_Yes. If I need to._ **

"What's he saying?" Matt presses. Keith didn't even hear him come up to the table. He leans over Shiro's other side, taking in the blankness of his stare and the open, relaxed language of his body. "Oh, shit. His eyes are a different color. That's never happened before."  
  
**_There has never been more of me before_ ** , Mothman replies, loud enough to reach all of their brains. Matt visibly pales.

"Please," Pidge chips in. She comes up behind Keith, touching his elbow gently. "There has to be something you know. How do we stop that guy? He _is_ the one who killed those people, isn't he?"

 ** _Yes._** Shiro— _Mothman_ , Keith reminds himself again—blinks slowly. **_Indirectly, but yes. He is.. he struggles with the burden, as Shiro does, but the years have worn him. He is less careful than he once was._**

"Less careful," Pidge echoes, frowning. "But.." She shakes her head. "How did you end up like this? Are you really split up?"

**_There is only so much of me to go around. It is simply a matter of how much a body can take, how much is transferred in the bite._ **

Keith's stomach drops. "You don't mean—"  
  
**_Do you think it is hard, sharing your body and mind with a whole beast?_** Mothman blinks again. **_Many have tried. They have all failed. There cannot be a man who is wholly both—it drives them mad. They have to share the burden._**

"Oh," Colleen whispers softly. She stands frozen at the monitors, her face ashen. "Then, the first time—"  
**_He has grown tired of being the way he is. He sees no other way out._ **

To be indestructible, but also mad. To try to die, over and over, but never succeed. To remember your life only in bits and pieces, broken fragments on the wind, blood crusted under your nails.

Keith will despise the white moth for the rest of his life, for making Shiro the way he is now. He'll never forgive him for inflicting _this_ on someone as good as him. And yet..

_If it was you, would you be desperate enough to do the same?_

He's afraid to know, and grateful that he'll never have to find out.

"What do we do now?" Pidge whispers. Her fingers curl tightly into the sleeves of her jacket, scraped knuckles surprisingly dark under the fluorescence. "There has to be _something_ we can do. We can't just let him go around killing people."  
  
"There's nobody else strong enough to do anything," Matt agreed. "You have to know something about how to take him down, right?"

 ** _On the contrary._** Mothman blinked slowly, red gaze trailing across all of their faces. **_I exist here and there, but how I came into being is beyond my knowledge. The only one who knows how to free me from a mortal body is the one who placed me within in the first place._**

Keith scowls. "If he had his way, he'd tear Shiro to pieces—there's no way we're working with him."  
**_I didn't ask you to. I only tell the truth as I know it._** Mothman blinks again, slower still. **_Do you really think that he could live this long alone?_**

"His heart rate is finally slowing," Colleen reports, fiddling with a monitor they can't see. "The regrowth rate is dropping again, too."

 _No,_ Keith thinks. He can feel himself breaking out into a cold sweat. He sees the meadow of his dreams, white wings bursting like a blooming flower, hears the heavy, coarse chanting in his eardrums louder than his own heartbeat. _You don't mean that. How can we..?_

"Where do we start?" He croaks. "Where do we..?"  
  
**_There is only so much I can do_ ** , Mothman admits softly, gently enough that nobody else must be able to hear. **_I place myself in your hands, Keith—you are the one who has to shape this into what must be._ **

He wants to yell, to shake Mothman by the shoulders. _This isn't just about me,_ he thinks, frantic. _This is Shiro's life on the line. This is about thousands of innocent people who don't even know you exist._

Mothman stares him in the eye.

**_You are the one I can trust—watch my back as I sleep._ **

And then his eyes slip closed, face slackening completely as he falls into slumber. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and then nothing more.

"He's out." Matt blinks. "That was fast."  
  
"Rates are steadying back to regular, half-moth levels. Katie, can you get me the redressing kit? We might want to check on the wound again."  
  
"On it."  
  
"He went weirdly quiet at the end, there. Was it something I said?" Matt cocks his head. "Keith? Did he say something to you?"

Keith stares at his blurry reflection in the floor tiles. He can hardly see himself in them. He's nothing but a grey shape, all of his scrapes and bruises washed away into the linoleum.

"Keith?"

"No." He looks up, evening out whatever twist his face feels like it's pulling into. "Nothing."

.

The wait for Shiro's final awakening is mind-numbing. Once he's been secured as stable—his wounds, redressed once, scarred terrifyingly fast into an ugly, purple scab—all they can do is continue to monitor him and feed him with his IV. Pidge ushers him into the house after a half hour's vigil, proclaiming that he needed a shower.

Keith go through the motions. The soaps in the shower are unfamiliar, smell wrong when plastered onto his head. The walls of the Holt house are covered in dusty photographs, family snapshots of laughter dulled in the dark. There's talk of a dog, but he sees it nowhere.

Pidge shows him to a guest room on the first floor, down the hall from the kitchen. The sheets feel too starchy and cold under his fingers but he doesn't protest; Colleen leaves him a cup of tea at the bedside table and demands him to rest once he's finished drinking it.

"You'll be no help to anyone if you don't sleep," she says, letting the mug clatter in its tray. "Especially not to Shiro."

"Yeah."  
  
"If any part of your body so much as twinges again, you need to come tell me. We'll patch you up, alright?"

"Okay."  
  
She gives him one last, long look from the doorway. "We'll figure this out when you wake up," she promises softly. "You kids shouldn't have to shoulder this alone."

He doesn't know how to tell her that she's already several months too late— _years_ too late, if all this starts with Shiro's changing. "Okay," he repeats, and crawls into bed. She lets the door click shut and leaves him with his thoughts, his shadows, the full moon's cast through the curtains.

He doesn't dream. It's not like he expected to after the day they've had—not like he expected to see Mothman after their long talk—but the emptiness nesting in his chest weighs him down like a stone anyway. He resigns himself to numbness and drinks the tea, cold and tasteless.

He thinks about Mothman's parting words.

It's not like Keith hasn't considered the idea of the white moth working with someone else; there are still aspects of the dreams that he doesn't know how to place, little details that he can't explain. He doesn't know where the clearing comes from, or how he knows minute details about flowers he's never seen. He _knows_ he's never heard that chanting voice before either.

Meeting the object of his nightmares is one thing; actively seeking them out is another beast entirely. Regardless of what Lance or anyone else might think, Keith doesn't _like_ to instigate violence. Especially not with things capable of snapping him in half on a whim. He doesn't have a death wish.

Still, he can't just let people die. Mothman had even said it himself.

_You are the one._

Keith is nobody. He came into this university with a one-track focus on graduating in four years, all else be damned. He doesn't have supernatural powers like Shiro, or an uncanny knack for deep-web hunting like Pidge. He isn't even a stellar baker or master conversationalist. He's just.. _himself._

So how the hell is he supposed to find someone that doesn't want to be found?

The full moon has forced them indoors, hiding in the shadows of the Holt home. The white mothman is—somewhere out there. They can't leave in the dark on good conscience, can't go anywhere while he still crawls about at large, waiting for a chance to finish the transferal to Shiro. They're fish in a barrel, waiting for the second shot to go off.

Keith has never loved to instigate, but some things just can't be left to waiting. He has to do _something._

He plucks his teacup from the bedside table and shuffles out into the corridor. The grandfather clock in the main area ticks noisily, underlining every soft pad of his socks over the hardwood floors. The hallways are utterly empty; even the dust motes seem still, frozen in a slumber that hangs off of Keith's limbs in cobwebs.

It has to be at least one in the morning if the outside sky is anything to go by, but a light still gleams from the kitchen. He pauses out in the hallway, staring at the soft, yellow glow, breathing in the must-and-wood smell, and listens for noise.

_Click. Click click click._

_Pidge,_ he ascertains. He isn't as surprised as one might think; if his midnight thought turns him into a night owl, Pidge's single-minded focus for information morphs her into an insomniac. After the day they've had, he wouldn't be surprised to find her awake until she passed out at the wrong time.

"I can hear you out there," she murmurs, after a long moment.

He sucks in a soft breath, unconsciously clenching the mug in his grasp, and slips forward into the light.

"I didn't mean to bother you."  
  
"You aren't." She pauses in her typing to look at him over the rim of her glasses. "I've lived in this house for eighteen years. I can hear all the creaks in the floorboards. I know when somebody's up."

"Right." He squeezes the mug a little tighter and shuffles in to look over her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

There are masses of tabs overlaid onto each other, windows minimized and maximized into a cluttered mess that his eyes blur over after catching the word _moth_ one too many times. Words, but all squished into seemingly harmless text. Most of it is general insect anatomy.

"Research," Pidge says simply. "I.. couldn't sleep."  
  
"Me neither," he admits quietly. He places the mug in the sink and does his best to pull out another chair without sending its legs groaning across the floor. "Mind if I sit here?"

"You're already sitting."  
  
"..Yeah."  
  
She huffs, rubbing one fist at her eye-bags. "Well, it doesn't matter. I don't know if what we're doing here is any help. Finding information on something like Mothman was difficult—finding information on his backstory, information that only _we_ know, is borderline impossible." She fiddles with her glasses. "There's absolutely nothing."  
  
"There has to be something." He scowls, bringing up one knee to rest his chin on. "There's no way he could just.. come into existence. It isn't—" He blinks, scowling even harder. "There's something out there. I know there is."  
  
"Well, whatever it is, it doesn't want to be found. It's certainly not on the web." Pidge wrinkles her nose. "I've been looking for _hours_ ."  
  
He stares at a hole in the pajamas Matt let him borrow. There's a tiny grey thread poking out of the weave, curling up into a minuscule loop that exposes a sliver of his kneecap. The skin beneath is freshly washed but gently scraped pink.

"..And Shiro?" He asks softly.

Pidge shakes her head quietly. "I've been remote-monitoring his brain waves."

Keith's lip curls. He knows he shouldn't be impatient. Shiro will wake when he's ready—when Mothman is ready, recharging from the labor of intensive flesh-melding—but that doesn't mean it doesn't prickle at him like an itch he can't scratch.

He's almost tempted to ask if he can slip into the lab just to sit with Shiro, to hear him breathe and make sure he's _fine_ , when Pidge speaks up again.

"Keith, I—" She stops and bites down on her bottom lip.

The open gap in his pajamas shifts, baring a forming scab to the light. The tiny indents of skin and flesh wrinkle as he moves, slowly lowering his knee to the floor. Already he can feel the patch beginning to itch.

"It's just—" She stops again, hands pausing over the keys. Her shoulders rise up near her ears as she slides away from the table to look him properly in the face. "I feel like.. I need to apologize."  
  
Keith frowns. "For what?"

"You know." She coughs, adjusting her glasses again at his blank expression. "The way things have gone with Shiro. I feel like it's my fault, somehow." Her mouth twists. "I just wanted to know more about Mothman. I didn't think he could ever be living _inside_ of someone, and I didn't think about what finding him would mean for.." Her voice trails off, brow creasing. 

"If I hadn't pushed so hard in the beginning then we wouldn't have gotten tangled into _this_ , and you and Shiro wouldn't be.. I don't know. It feels stupid now, how excited I was to force you into helping me when he didn't want—" She swallows hard. "I just—"  
  
"Pidge."

"I almost wish we hadn't—"  
  
" _Pidge_."

She sucks in a deep, shaky breath and lets it out. Keith sits up and leans in across the table, making sure to hold her dropping line of vision. He waits for her bottom lip to tighten, for her eyes to focus back on his own, and then shakes his head.

He'd be a liar if he hadn't thought about it—a world where Pidge's curiosity had never gone so far, where Mothman hadn't appeared out of the forest that day and reached for him. He could have been Shiro's project partner without finding anything else out about him, could have kissed him for _real_ and not spilled blood, ruined everything himself—

But that wouldn't change what Shiro was. That wouldn't fix what he has the threat of becoming in their absence.

There's no time for _what if_ anymore. He's had to set them aside a long time ago to make room for here and now. Shiro needs him—Shiro, bright and warm like the sun, who never deserved to have shadows stick to him like poison—and all be damned if Keith is going to let him go.

He made up his mind weeks ago. Even if there wasn't the white moth, wasn't the overhanging threat of innocent deaths or spirits clamoring for brain space, he would do it all over again. Again, and again, and again. The impossible was worth what could _be_ possible.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he says, and knows the truth of it in his heart. "Everything is gonna be okay."  
  
"I'm still—"  
  
"Don't." He presses one hand to her shoulder, squeezing tight. "Don't say it. Because I'm not. Okay?"

Pidge squeezes her eyes shut. Sucks in a shallow breath and lets it out fast. Her shoulders tense beneath his grip and then relax finally, slackening into something normal.

"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."  
  
Out in the hallway the grandfather clock begins its hourly chime, clanging twice over. Keith squeezes once more and lets go.

"You need to get some sleep. Move to your room?"

"Would you come with me?"

"If you want me to."  
  
She nods, pressing her laptop shut with a _click._ "Please."

She leads the way down the hall, darting this way and that over the rugs to avoid creaks in the floorboards. The grandfather clock ticks its steady beat when they pass, stamping out a peace that slows Keith's heartbeat when he hears it, feeling the tick of it in his pulse. Finally, the whole house will curl up into slumber.

Pidge's bedroom is like her dorm single but magnified several times over. The overhead windows allow moonlight to spill in sweetly, filling the corners of her room plastered in posters with shadows. The twin bed to one side isn't any bigger than the university-issued one, but they've long learned how to make it work.

He crawls into the sheets, nose crinkling helplessly as he recognizes the alien heads printed across the fabric, and presses his back to the wall. Pidge shuffles her way in after him, tucking the comforter up until her nose barely peeks out. Though the room is unfamiliar and the circumstances are as ugly as they can get, the familiarity of this tiny fragment warms Keith's heart. It's been a while since they've done this but it doesn't feel any different.

"It's like we're back at school," Pidge says, reading his mind again. "But the food here is way better."  
  
He scoffs, poking at her with one foot. "Go to sleep."  
  
"Yeah, yeah." She shifts about, getting comfortable on her back, before huffing and rolling to face him. They stare at each other over the top of the comforter, twin expressions of careful calm.

"Keith?"

"Yeah?"

Her eyes scrunch up into tiny smiles. "Thank you."

There are a million things Keith has because of Pidge: a best friend that he can turn to with _anything_ even when that anything is a cryptid boyfriend _;_ a home when he's spent his whole life being passed around with the tupperware; a small circle of brightness he can cling to even when his fears threaten to swallow him with the darkness. She is the beginning of everything this year has turned into, the impetus to stand up and fight against the power of the unknown.

She is the reason he has learned to believe in fantasies.

 _Wrong_ , he thinks. _I should be thanking you._

Though the words stick in his throat, Pidge smiles softly and nestles her face under the blankets. After a minute, her frame relaxes and her breath evens out, pacing itself to the sleepy tick of a clock neither of them can hear.

He sighs in the quiet, shutting his own eyes. It's okay, he figures, that he doesn't say anything yet. He has a feeling Pidge knows anyway.

She always has been expert at reading him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there, folks. I don't want to put a specific number on the fic just yet, but my guess is 3-4 more chapters. I can hardly believe it myself.  
> That being said, I know I said this chapter was going to be longer. Hopefully all the Pidge appreciation makes up for the trouble I had writing it these past two weeks :') Finals are coming up in the next month so we'll see how things roll from here, but I'm not going to skimp on quality to get stuff out on Mothman Fridays.  
> Season five is next weekend (YIKES) so we'll see if I release a chapter then! I should be able to, but God knows what happens with all the new info we get. I might take a week off to release something else. Keep an eye out!
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/) or leave a comment below if u wanna


	15. Oh, Sweet Moth of Mine

At first, the beeping feels like it’s part of his dream.

The meadow lilies burst in time with the thump of his heart, soft petals splitting into shards that whip away on the wind. He crawls over soil wet with blackness—knows intrinsically that if he were to lift his hands, they would be smeared with crimson and ink—and tries to reach for each flower before they explode. He never makes it.

His heart beats loud in his ears, loud enough to pulse over the ragged whispers of a voice that thrills him as much as it makes him want to run. _Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump._

He hardly notices the beeping at first, his heart is so loud. It chimes in synchrony with his pulsing insides, harmonizing with the drumbeat, serenading over the top like a shrill little bird desperate to fly away.

Then, with lily fragments whistling through his hair, sticking to the stains on his skin and the wetness between his fingers, he realizes the beeping is separate from everything else entirely.

Keith’s eyes snap open. The terror of waking and staring at an unfamiliar roof is inevitable; he’s gotten too used to the white ceiling, the crooked smiley-face beaming at him in his sleep, and his dreams seem to threaten to carry him away these days. He stares at the overhead posters of Ursa Minor and UFO’s and listens to his heart slow in time with his raspy gasps for air.

“Keith,” Pidge says. Her voice chafes with exhaustion, but he’s relieved to see that shadows under her eyes have lessened a tiny bit. “It’s the monitor.”  
  
He blinks back at her. _The monitor..?_

The monitor. He sits up fast enough for his blood to pulse in his ears.

“Shiro,” he croaks, wincing at the bolt of nausea. “He’s—”  
  
“Awake,” she breathes. She sits up, hair ruffled like a baby duck’s butt. “He’s _awake_.”

They kick off the sheets as fast as they can and fumble down the stairs even faster. None of the other Holts are in sight, but the family dog raises its head and thumps its tail against the hallway rug at the sight of them.

Pidge snags a coat off the wall. Keith doesn’t even bother sinking his heels into his sneakers. They’re both out the back door before the dog can even bark farewell.

All the lights are on inside the shed; Keith blinks through the blinding fluorescence and adjusts his view on the table in the middle of the room, where they had cushioned Shiro’s body but hadn’t dared to move him. The table is empty.

Colleen looks up from one counter, gloved hands glistening with purple liquid. Her mouth begins to move but all Keith can see is the residue, splattered on the table, on the counter in front of her, on her hands—

 _No_ , he thinks, heart slamming in his throat. _No no no—_

“Keith?”

His eyes dart over to one corner of the lab. Matt stands to one side of a circular curtain, lips pulled back into an exhausted smile.

"Shiro," he manages, unable to string his words together. Matt shakes his head, smile curving wider and wider, and Keith swallows his nausea. He wouldn't be smiling if Shiro was doing badly, but then why..? "Where's—"  
  
The curtain shifts, plastic crunching as it swings to one side, and a familiar dark head pokes out. His eyes are shadowed with bruises and his lips are chapped, pink scars dotting his complexion, but the almond eyes and wry smile are the same, the right one, they're—

"Shiro," he breathes. He doesn't know how he gets across the room but suddenly he's there in front of him, hands reaching out to cup his cheeks, fingers trailing over the angle of his jaw. Shiro’s skin is dry but solid, real, _warm._

 _Like a small sun_ , he thinks weakly, and feels a lump form in his throat.

"Keith," Shiro laughs, his own voice hoarse. "Hey."  
  
He's dressed in soft clothes—another set of Matt's, most likely—and his skin, while thick with the smell of gel and medical ointments, is still his own. Keith takes in how he stands almost completely straight, favoring a gentle hunch into his wounded side, and steals his own moment to stand back and breathe.

Shiro clings to a bloody plastic bag with his old clothes and smiles at him patiently.

Keith swallows again. And a third time.

It wasn't that he really believed Shiro _wouldn't_ pull through; he knew perfectly well when he gave blood that the Mothman wouldn't allow him to die. It would take more than a chewed chunk taken out of his side to get him down, more than a gentle brush with the white moth to subdue a monster capable of tearing apart men with a single muscular twitch.

He'd always had faith in Shiro's recovery, had _seen_ how fast he was healing, and yet—

And yet, lying in the dark, thinking about the sounds he'd made, the tears streaming from his cheeks as the white moth tore him apart like he was nothing—

Relief is a weight that slams on his shoulders, his knees, his heart, pressing down on all sides. He can feel the tightness in his lungs seizing and then relaxing at the sight of Shiro, the pinch of his mouth softening as Shiro smiles.

"Hey," Shiro says, eyes searching his face. He brings one hand up and gently touches Keith's elbow, bringing his hand down from where it unconsciously knotted in his hair. "Hey. I said everything was gonna be okay, didn't I?"

Keith nods. He can't trust himself to speak.

"Hey," Shiro repeats. "Come here."  
  
His arms tremble when they wrap around Shiro's torso. Keith presses his fingertips into the bumps of his spine, feeling out the musculature so he hands won't shake. Shiro presses one hand to his lower back, fingers spreading over the curve of his body, and plants the other firmly in his hair. He rests his chin on top of Keith's head and sighs long and slow; Keith presses one cheek to his chest and feels him breathe in, hears the soft _thump_ of his heart beating.

They don't speak for a while, but it's perfectly fine. There's nothing they can say to one another that their hearts don't already know.

.

The specifics around Shiro's healing are beyond scientific explanation. The monitors tell them all they suspect, but give no logical explanation. All they can do is assume that Mothman did what he had to do to stay alive in Shiro's body—a tic for a tac, a chunk of flesh recreated in sheer survival mode because who really wants to die?

Mothman’s thoughts don't surface again that morning (“he’s completely quiet,” Shiro says, “but I can still feel him there, like a dormant volcano”) but there are other signs of the change. Healing on the surface is one thing; recreating muscle, threading it back the way it was before, is apparently its own beast.

They bring Shiro into the house for breakfast. Colleen watches them all eat french toast and fresh fruit with hawk eyes, making sure to force extra bacon onto Shiro's plate. He eats it all and then some, ravenous appetite kicking up into new levels that would make gym rats at their school sweat. It's almost terrifying.

Pidge convinces Keith to part from Shiro's side long enough to shower and dress in a new set of Matt's old clothes. He borrows a beanie as well—an olive green thing with little pine trees on it. Shiro's smile blooms at the sight of it, crooked and sweet, and he reaches up to take it off of Keith's head.

But he never makes it.

He slumps back into the couch in a movement so sharp, so instinctual, that Keith's heart immediately spikes into overdrive. He leans forward into Shiro's space without even thinking, reaching for the man who's suddenly twisted and gasping, a sheen of sweat rapidly forming at his temples.

"Shiro?" He breathes, frantic. Is it Mothman? Is it the wound? "Shiro, what's wrong?"

Shiro's mouth parts soundlessly, tiny pants of air huffing out between his lips. The crease between his brows pushes deep enough to bury all of the flickering hopes Keith's allowed to grow in their morning together, sharp enough to cut the edge of his heart and sink in deep. He can only watch, powerless, as Shiro slumps entirely into his right side, hands trembling and grasping blindly at the shirt there.

 _Not the shirt_ , he thinks. _The wound._

After what feels like an eternity, Shiro's fingers slow their frantic twisting and his gasping begins to quiet. Keith ignores the ache in his thighs, the prickling of his feet that have fallen asleep in his attempt to stay at eye level with Shiro; his hands, shaking almost as hard as Shiro's own, reach out and tentatively comb through his forelock. Shiro's forehead is completely slick.

"Shiro?" He whispers. "Are you..?"

Shiro sucks in a breath and exhales in a single, sharp motion. His eyes flutter open into slits and trail across the carpet to meet Keith's. The pain there churns Keith's stomach.

"I'm.." He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and chews on it hard enough to look painful. "Not fully healed yet, I think."

Slowly, so slowly, he leans back into the couch and pulls up his shirt. The wound has healed enough that a gauze cover isn't necessary any longer; the skin, twisted and gnarled like an old tree, stands out in sharp relief compared to the smooth pale expanse of his torso. Livid lines of dark purple twist and turn, gleaming grotesquely the way healed scars initially do, having warped themselves into the juncture between his hipbone and bottom ribs.

Shiro's mouth twists down at the sight. Keith keeps his expression as carefully blank as he can.

Neither of them point out that the wound hasn't changed appearance since they removed the bandages earlier. Whatever healing Mothman has given Shiro, his efforts have slowed to a stop.

_For all we know, Shiro could permanently be.._

Keith swallows. "Do you want me to get Colleen?"

"No." Shiro's fingers trace around the scarring but are careful to never touch. His fingers shake hard enough to blur. "It's.. gone now."  
  
Keith watches the way his lips tighten as he sits up, the way his knuckles go white and curl tight into the cushions as he adjusts himself. The tiny flame of hope flickers feebly in his chest, shrinking down under steady suffocation.

"Okay," he says, though bile stings on his tongue. "If that's what you want."

He doesn't have to tell Colleen, though—doesn't have to do anything more than look her in the eye to know that she already foresaw this outcome. Her eyes pinch at the corners when she looks at Shiro alone on the couch, his hands trembling around a mug of tea. Keith sees the curl of her fists into her apron and knows she knows.

The morning is spent in solemn silence. They curl up with a blanket and watch the news as if it's the most fascinating thing. There are no reports of further deaths or missing persons, no allusions to the double homicide case being developed. It's as if the twin deaths have been cast aside as accidents and slipped into the cracks of the floor.

"They really believe it's wild animals," Pidge observes. Her hands twist tight around a Tesla mug, sweater paws sliding to bare her thin, bony wrists. "They're just going to let it go."  
  
"There's nothing they can do," Shiro says. Even with the sickly pallor of his flesh, his voice carries strong, settling Keith's nerves as much as his tremors rattle into Keith's side. "There's no evidence to prove otherwise."

"There's nothing we can do for them now," Keith agrees. As much as it pains him to think of those two innocents, it's the truth. They were the example, the warning flag. "All we can do is stop _him_ from going after anyone else."  
  
All they can do is try, try again—though it feels like even that isn't enough.

 

Later in the afternoon, Colleen decides to make a trip into town for groceries. She leaves the rest of them to hold down the fort, suggesting they play with Rover in the backyard. Shiro and Keith plunk themselves down into the swing and watch Pidge jog around the yard with a ball in hand. Rover, tongue trailing behind him in the wind, bounds after her in jaunty steps. Keith envies the freedom of him bounding around the yard. What he wouldn't give to be clueless, just for a few seconds.

Matt comes up to stand behind them. Copious steam from his tea mug trails out over the rim and spills off his hands like running water. Keith watches it trail end over end until it dissipates inches from the ground, gossamer threads snapping in the breeze.

Shiro wordlessly watches Pidge throw the ball. Her laughter echoes up off the trees as Rover bounds after it, torpedoing straight into a patch of ivy to snap it off the ground, before turning tail to bring it back. Over, and over, and over.

"Does it get any easier?"

Matt cocks his head, considering. Rover jumps and snaps the ball out of the air several feet from Pidge's outstretched hand.

"Sometimes," he says. "And sometimes it doesn't."  
  
Shiro nods. His left hand, curled tight around Keith's fingers, squeezes tight enough for them to feel each other's heartbeats. Even now they circle and begin to sync, rhythmic and steady.

"I tried to take in my dishes, after breakfast." He pauses, wetting his lips, and his hand squeezes even tighter. "I.. broke a plate. Sorry."  
  
"I know," Matt says. "I saw mom sweeping it away." He takes a steady sip from his mug and grimaces at the heat of it. "It was one of the ugly ones from our grandma. Don't take it personally."  
  
Shiro's mouth twitches oddly, like he wants to laugh but can't quite make it. "That wasn't what I meant."  
  
"I know."

There isn't enough room for Matt to plunk himself down on Keith's other side, so he stands off to one side and leans against the swing railing. His hair is growing out long, tickling at the edge of his grey turtleneck and his cheeks; Keith watches the strands slap at his skin, tracing scars that he'd never considered asking about before. He wonders, briefly, if there will ever be a time when he can.

 _Maybe one day, after all of this is over._ He stares down at his hand intertwined with Shiro's, his longer, thinner fingers covered by the other man's. _When all of this is done._

"He mentioned the other man working with someone else." Matt frowns, taking another sip. "Who do you think he meant? Do you have any idea?"

"None," Shiro confesses. "I've never heard of any of it before."

"Keith?" Matt's eyes flicker to him. "Have _you_ heard anything else? From anyone? Pidge mentioned talking to some old woman, but I don't know." He frowns, tapping at the side of his mug with one nail. "I don't know enough about any of this compared to you guys."

Keith blinks.

 _White wings bursting over lilies, an open field soaked with blood, the sky opening up cold and black, blacker than the eyes all watching him and he can't_ breathe _, the voices are saying not to or he'll be found—_

"Keith?" Matt repeats. His eyes search Keith's face, brow creasing over whatever he sees there. "You.. do you know something?"

For a moment, he considers not telling them. They already know he can speak with Mothman, but witnessing things in dreams is another thing entirely. He's mentioned it in passing to Pidge before but it's been so long; so much has happened, the things he sees in dreams have fallen to the wayside as casualties of too much thought in what feels like too little time.

But they need this. _Shiro_ needs this. Whatever he can give could prove valuable, now that all they have are dead ends and a debilitating wound.

He traces over Shiro's knuckles with one finger, feeling out the tiny dimples and bumps in the skin.

"I don't know if it's useful," he says, "but I think I've heard them before. In a dream."

Shiro goes perfectly still.

"A dream," Matt echoes, wondering. "You've.. dreamed stuff? About..?"

"The white moth, yeah. I've been seeing it for—a while now."  
  
"And you didn't think to tell anybody? Keith—"  
  
"I didn't know!" Shiro's hand squeezes tight enough to hurt, and Keith feels like his chest has caved in and taken all of his breath away. Across the yard Rover raises his head from his ball, ears pricking, and Pidge looks their way with a frown.

Keith stares back at her. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out in a slow, steady stream.

"I didn't think it was important," he says evenly. "With everything else going on, I just got used to having weird shit happen to me. It's not like you asked before anyway."  
  
Matt looks like he wants to argue, but Shiro's hand relaxes around Keith's fingers. He nods, bumping shoulders with him, and stares out at where Rover is furiously trying to bury his ball in a leaf pile.

"Okay. So you have dreams. What do you see?"

Keith's lip curls. "Do you want the details or a brief overview?"

"Is it the same one every time?"

"Not really."

"Keith."  
  
"It isn't," he insists. "Sometimes it is—and then it isn't anymore. I don't know." His free hand tears through his hair. "I've seen _him_ plenty of times but I never realized what it meant until.." _Until he hunted you down._

"Him," Shiro echoes. "So the white moth is a he." His breath hitches as he palms his side, eyes trailing blindly over the cut grass. "What—what does he look like?"

Keith shrugs with one shoulder. He doesn't admit that he can see the white moth in his brain clear as day, as if he only dreamt of him the night before. The blackness of his eyes, all dark and soul-sucking, reaching out to watch him like he had for so long—

"Tall," he says. "Long white hair. Pointy."  
  
"Pointy?"

"His face." He gestures to his own ineffectually. "He's.. pointy."

"Pointy," Matt repeats. "Well. I don’t know if I've ever seen him, but I don’t know anyone who fits that description at all."  
  
"Me neither," Shiro says, "but that doesn't mean anything. For all we know, whoever he's working with has been hiding him for months. Years, even, if Shay's grandma is telling the truth."

 _Years._ Years of hiding, filled up with an alien brain, alien thoughts, swirling around and around in your head until you think you're going crazy.

Keith may be wearing several layers but the goosebumps underneath refuse to leave.

"Pidge probably already emailed her," Shiro continues. "We'll have to go see her before we all leave for break, just to make sure we aren't missing anything important. I don't know if this white moth guy is gonna make another move when he's been beat, but we can't take any chances."  
  
"I think I gave him a real run for his money, for what it's worth." Matt takes another sip of his tea. "The next time we see him he won't _quite_ look symmetrical."  
  
Shiro's grins wryly. "Glad to hear it."

.

The rest of the afternoon passes amidst stirring trees and golden leaf piles. The last maple in the Holt's yard only has a couple buttery pieces left on its branches; Keith sips his new mug of tea from just inside the backdoor and stares at them as they shiver, golden shrapnel on a black skeleton.

Shiro, for all of his rapid recovery, still needs plenty of rest. He sits back down on the couch when they turn on a cooking show and conks out almost immediately. His soft snores, lulled after Keith nudged him into laying down properly with a blanket, float down the hall and tickle at Keith's ears. Normally he hates snoring—Lance's or otherwise—but hearing Shiro's even breaths calms the jitters in his bones.

They're safe for now. Shiro can regain his strength, and they can all recoup and prepare for what lies ahead.

As Keith watches, one more leaf breaks free of its tenuous bond and flails free, turning end over end in the wind until it drops into the thick greenery beyond the fence.

Pidge's careful footsteps slide up the floorboards, though Keith has to strain to hear her coming. She carries her own mug and considers him quietly, eyes flicking from him to the backyard.

"She already emailed back," she says, as the wind begins to pick up again. "Said she knew we were going to contact her."  
  
"'Course she did."  
  
Pidge's cheek twitches with the ghost of a smile. "Call it a talent of hers, I guess."

For a little while the silence between them spins itself like a spider's thread, longer and longer, wispy bits floating out over the yard to join the dead leaves. Keith revels in it; the noisiness of the past day—god, had it really only been a single day?—would be enough to cripple him if it weren't for the steady, measured pacing of those surrounding him. He breathes in Pidge's presence the same way he imagines she soaks him in like a bath and, for a few moments, they simply sip tea in peace.

The redwoods butt right up to their property this far into the forest. As a result, the sun only makes it halfway through its descent before long shadows begin to stretch across the lawn. Even from inside Keith can see how cold the night is becoming; the wind only seems to be picking up further, whipping the leaf piles into messy blobs that Matt will have to rake back up later.

His breath steams the glass, fogging up twin spots with his hot mug. He trails one finger through the condensation and watches the droplets dribble away from his touch, down, down to the floor.

"You know," Pidge murmurs, "you're welcome to stay here for Thanksgiving."  
  
Keith can see a miniature reflection of himself in that fingerprint of clear glass. He wavers on the spot and watches his reflection ripple; he sucks in a steadying breath and sees his Adam's apple bob, his chest stuttering before sinking once again.

"I know," he says. He doesn’t bother mentioning Shiro, knows they talked over it when he was using the bathroom. "I figured as much."  
  
"And? Are you going to do it?"

He scuffs his sock against the boards and doesn't say anything.

 _"Keith."_ Pidge frowns, jutting into his line of vision. "You're not staying on campus. That's stupid and you know it."  
  
"It's just a couple of days," he hedges, but the words sound stupid coming out of his mouth. "Really, I'll be fine," he tries again.

Pidge looks skeptical. "Whatever you want to do on campus, you can do it here. There's someone out there who's actively trying to kill us and you want to mope around your apartment? _Alone?_ No. I don't think so."  
  
"It's not up to you," he mutters. "And I don't _mope_."  
  
"Brood, then." She takes a quick slurp of her tea and glares at him over the rim. "Whatever problem you've got with joining family occasions that aren't your aunt's—well. Even your aunt's. I don't care. You're going to stay here with me and Matt, okay? We can go back the same day as Shiro so we all won't be back alone."

He scowls. "How do you do that?"

"What?"

"You know." He squints at all five-feet-three-inches of her, menacing even in thick green sweats and an alien beanie. "Read my mind."

Pidge raises an eyebrow. "It's a special talent."  
  
"Really."  
  
"Yep. Cultivated it over two years. It's very important to me, you know."  
  
He huffs. "Yeah?"

"Yep." She smiles fully, now, and bumps his hip with her own. "How else would I know how to keep up with you?"

Keith frowns. "I think it's the other way around."  
  
"Hmm. Maybe." She pokes his shoulder with the tip of her nose. "Either way, you're going to stay next week for pie and turkey. And you're going to _like_ it."  
  
"If you say so," he says, but he can't deny the way his heart flutters just a bit at the thought. There are plenty of chairs around the Holt's table—enough that he can have his own, just for a little while.

"Come on," Pidge says, slipping away. "It's getting dark. Law and Order will be coming on soon, and if we don't get seats now Matt will take the best armchair."

.

Colleen brings back enough vegetables and chicken for them all to have seconds. Keith wakes Shiro up and watches him scarf down enough food to send a linebacker into a food coma, and then go back for a third biscuit. He's the last to finish the meal and the first to rise, offering his dish to Colleen on his good side.

There's not much they can do aside from get ready for bed—not much they _want_ to do. Keith isn't the one who's had his insides chewed up like a hamburger but his brain still feels fuzzy as his body slowly works through the hot food. He goes through the motions without thinking too hard, keeping an eye on the stirring trees in the backyard. The forest looks utterly serene under the full moon, untouched by the horrors that lurk somewhere within.

With Shiro healed and walking there's no reason to keep him on the table out back. Keith gives up the spare bedroom so he can have a proper place to sleep; he deserves it more than anyone else, and Keith refuses to take no for an answer.

"Are you sure?" Shiro asks for the millionth time. He's already under the covers, the comforter rolled up to his waist and his eyelids sagging as if they might shut on him at any second, but he's determined not to let Keith go without a fight. "I don't want to take your space."  
  
Keith shakes his head, bunching up a thick quilt in his arms. "It's not mine. And.. you need it way more than I do."  
  
Shiro can't argue with that and he knows it. He pouts like an angry, fluffy bird, hair sticking to the pillows when he flops back. "If the couch isn't comfy, you have to come back. I don't mind sharing."  
  
Keith shakes his head tiredly. "I kick too much. Don't worry about it."  
  
"But—"  
  
"Shiro. Just go to sleep, okay?" He hesitates at the door, toes nudging the carpet border. "I'll be here right when you wake up."  
  
Shiro's eyes are already closed, but his lips curve up in that sweet, crooked way that makes Keith's heart ache. "Promise?" He murmurs.

"Promise," Keith says. "Night, Shiro."  
  
"Night."

The couch isn't nearly as comfy as the bed, but it's better than laying awake all night, terrified he's going to thrash into Shiro in his sleep. Keith tucks the quilt under his feet to keep the heat in and bunches a pillow under his head. The soft smells of the Holt's fabric softener curl around him, floral and unfamiliar, but he closes his eyes anyway.

They'll have to return to campus in the morning and explain away Shiro's injury. They've already planned out an excuse—falling down a ravine while hiking—though it doesn't seem good enough. Shiro will have to put bandages over his side and pretend to be injured for another couple of weeks to keep up the illusion.

Keith squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He hates lying; he's always been absolutely awful at covering for anything being wrong. Still, there's nothing else they can do. At the very least, Shiro's lie won't just be his own. He'll have Keith by his side, and Pidge, and Matt. They have Colleen too, apparently.

Everything will just have to work out as it is until they can formulate a proper plan—until Keith can decide how to get rid of the white moth.

He just hopes he makes the right decisions when the time comes.

.

The eyes are everywhere again.

He can feel them even though they aren't all open, can _see_ them in the back of his head, blinking at him through a thin, dark veil. He'd forgotten how ugly they all were, veiny or dilated, slit-eyed and unnatural, bloody or utterly black.

 _No._ This is wrong. He'd thought the eyes were gone forever, but—

The shadow of the veil shudders and trembles. He can feel the tenuous threads clinging to one another, the desperate nature of its weakness; where there once was a solid curtain keeping out the watch, the strength has dissipated until it's nearly disappeared.

The darkness isn't strong enough to keep out the eyes anymore, and now they all see him.

He has to go. The certainty of this settles in his bones like cement, kick-starting his heart into overdrive. He gets up and _runs._

Through the darkness is a door. He feels vaguely like he should recognize the glass, the cloudy surface covered in steam, but he ignores the familiarity. All that matters are the eyes, the chase, _escape._

He slams his palms against the glass and moves through into the open air.

**_You. YoU yOU YOU—_ **

_No._ He slips going across wet grass and falls to his knees. _No. Nonono—_

The eyes are following. They stare and stare, unblinking, big enough to see him no matter how far he runs, no matter where he goes. He can't hide. He'll never be safe.

The way out into the open forest is blocked by a measly wooden gate. He fumbles with the latch, hands slipping over cold metal until it gives way. Then he's out, out into the forest, legs flying over uneven ground.

The forest here is untamed. It _hurts._ Underbrush nicks at his legs, tearing through fabric and skin. His exposed forearms sting as branches scrape over them and split flesh open like a ripe fruit. He hurts and hurts, but he can't stop.

His heart pumps blood fast but he always needs to move faster; his ears pound but his footsteps are louder, giving away his escape route. The eyes follow, ever steady and ever present. They're watching him.

 _Leave me alone!_ He snarls it to the open wind, feels his spit splatter against his chapped lips. The air curls from his open mouth like smoke, illuminated briefly by the full moon, before it scatters away behind him. He can feel the tears prickling at the corners of his lids. He just wants to be safe. _Go away!_

The tug in his chest that says to run pulls him this way and that, drawing him through the trees on a winding leash. Everything aches, a dull throb that pounds in him beat by beat from head to toe. His lungs sting when he gasps in cold air and burn on the exhale, setting him alight from the inside out.

 _Just a little further_. _Just a little more—_

The darkness barely hanging onto his shoulders snaps and lets go. He trips and falls, rolling and rolling, tasting dirt and ash and the tang of blood. The world is a whirl of dark, confusing knives jabbing at him from all sides.

And then.. silence.

He opens one eye.

He's in a clearing. It isn't nearly as big as the one he knows, but there's an opening in the trees wide enough for the moon to spill down on him. Needles fly free from their branches through the wind's fever pitch, sprinkling over the patch of grass.

He sucks in a deep breath. Then a second, and a third. His heart beats fast enough to tear itself free from his ribs.

The eyes have all gone shut.

 _I did it,_ he thinks weakly. _I'm.. okay._

**_ARe YOU?_ **

The full moon splinters apart, curling into velvet petals that scatter on the wind. The grass, damp beneath his hands, turns dark.

He stares up and up and up, sucking in air but never swallowing it.

 _No._ His heart won't slow, threatens to beat faster still until it stops. _No, I thought you were gone,_ I thought you were gone—

**_ThINK AGAiN._ **

The white moth comes into the clearing. It stands before him, tall and proud, ignoring the death rattle of the redwoods around them. Its wings seem to glow through the darkness, the speckled black specks across it twinkling wetly.

 _No,_ he realizes, staring harder. _They're eyes. They're all eyes._

His chest hurts. His legs hurt. He can't breathe, can't get enough air in no matter how hard he tries. Faintly, above the whistling wind, he can hear his own pathetic wheezing, rasping away like a dying animal.

Because he is going to die. He's sure of it, and there's no way out, nowhere left to run. He's ran straight into this trap as if he was born for it—ran straight through his dreams to his own demise like he’d done before.

He wonders, fleetingly, if it's going to hurt.

The white moth comes forward to stand over him. Its eyes are blood-red like Mothman's, glowing like a traffic light in the dark, and stare unblinking into his own. It opens fuzzy white jaws and groans that awful noise, gurgling low and thick like sludge. Its hands, white and frigid, and grasp around his middle and lift him.

He closes his eyes. _Make it quick_.

_I'm sorry, Shiro, for never saying—_

Weightlessness.

He snaps open his eyes. They're flying over the treetops, his arms and legs dangling into the open air. The tips of the redwoods are just below them, thick and unrelenting in their density. They seem to ripple with the wind, undulating like a dark green ocean.

The full moon watches with its single milky eye, tracing their flight without a sound.

They fly for what could be hours. His limbs throb with the pulse of his heart, stinging with every rush of blood through his veins. Tears fly free from his eyes, ripped from the stinging, icy wind, and splatter across his cheeks.

He hangs, suspended, awaiting their destination with dread.

There is no relief when they begin to descend. No victory for landing on the ground. He knows, numb from the cold, aching from their journey, that this is the beginning of the end. The white moth drops him in the ground and steps forward, wings twitching in the breeze.

A soft chanting barely carries over the rustling trees. The voice, hoarse and low, stabs at his ears like an icepick.

He knows where they are, though there are no lilies. He's dreamed it over and over, seeing this vision until it tattooed itself into the folds of his brain.

And now it will finally become true.

The chanting stops. Out of the trees ahead of them a cloaked figure appears, dressed head to toe in black. White hair flies free of their hood, spilling out wildly as the wind knocks it back and exposes a woman's face worn by time, scarred and twisted into a caricature of humanity. Splatters of blood and gore line her wrinkles, filling in the folds of her face in ink.

She reaches forward and cups one gnarled hand to the white moth’s face.

"My son," she croaks. "You have finally done it. Now we will finally be free."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready, guys. the next chapter is going to be moth mania. 
> 
> (also, feel free to yell with me about season 5 on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/). i watched it last night and it kicked my ass and left me for dead in a ditch.. and you can BET ON IT that im writing something oh my god)


	16. The Man, The Moth, The Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting to write this chapter since I first decided this was going to be a long project. There's a lot to swallow in this chapter, lore and squicks alike. I included as many tags as I thought to be necessary, but if any of them are particularly worrying for you, please don't hesitate to send me a message on tumblr to ask more about specifics or where/what to skip.

Keith stares up from the ground. His limbs vibrate with an insurmountable ache, a thrumming heavy enough to make his skull pulse with his blood. The feeling is nothing compared to the swirling thoughts in his head.

_My son._

“You,” he chokes. “You’re the one who—”  
  
The woman doesn’t even look at him. She only has eyes for her son, tracing over the thick white hair of its head and the glistening solidity of its body.

“I did what I had to,” she says, deathly soft. “There is no price I wouldn’t pay.”  
  
Keith’s eyes burn from the wind and ache from the cold, but he doesn’t dare look away. “You killed them.”  
  
“They were necessary sacrifices.” The woman finally tears her gaze from the white moth to look at him. Her eyes, sunken deep into the pits of her skull, gleam gold like twin polished stones. “As you will be. The moth spirit favors you too much—it will be easy.”  
  
_No._ Keith feels his dinner flop over in his stomach. He licks his lips and tastes acid. “What—what are you talking about?”

The woman gives him a sardonic smile. “Did you really think you could be a worthy meal for my creation? Don’t be stupid.” She places one hand on the white moth’s chest, directly over where its heart would be. “You will be _bait._ ”

 _Bait._ Of course. It isn’t him that they want. He isn’t the one who already has half of the moth spirit within him, half of the madness funnelled into his flesh and brain like batter. He was the easy target because he has no backup strength, no transformation. He’s just _human._

He’s Mothman’s now, as much as he is Shiro’s. And he’s going to die for it.

“You’re crazy,” he snarls. He hopes the venom in his voice covers the way his body shakes. “You’re fucking _crazy_ —”  
  
“I’m right,” the woman says coolly. “He will come, and you will all die.”

The blood pulsing in Keith's ears reaches a fever pitch. He can feel every extremity too much all of a sudden—can see in a calm moment of clarity the plan that has been laid.

The dreams. The line between dream and reality blurred so thin at times that it was impossible to tell what was what. It would be so easy to reach him with the way he's covered in the moth spirit's trace, too simple to just reach out and find him in sleep. The white moth's done it before—done it multiple times, now that he thinks about the eyes and the wings in his dreams.

He should have gone straight to the others when he found the mud on his shoes, should have _said_ something about how he feared he had actually walked in his dreams to that place he'd never been. He had it on the tip of his tongue and he let it slip away.

A fatal mistake—his last mistake. He'd walked straight out into the forest thinking he was escaping what was watching him, but all he'd done was run from the one thing tenuously keeping him safe. The moth spirit was weak after healing Shiro; its reach only went so far, and he'd ran straight away from the darkness.

If the dream connection is as tangible as he fears, Mothman will know he's gone. He can see it now: the stirring in Shiro's brain, the urgency to wake up and find him. To see he's gone, to see the back gate open, and to _know._

Shiro and Mothman were both too good. They would never let him go, and he knew that. The white moth and his mother knew that.

All he'd wanted to do was protect Shiro and now he was going to lead him, weak and scarred and beaten down, to his destruction.

Keith's scratched hands curl into fists. He stares up into those gleaming eyes and feels the hot fury of his discovery burning like a star. He wants to scream, to get up and fix this with his bare hands.

He'll tear them both to pieces for this.

"Pick him up," the woman demands. "We need to move him inside."

He lunges up onto shaking knees. "Over my dead body," he snarls. "Don't fucking touch me, I—"

The white moth moves faster than his eyes can follow. One moment it stands in front of the haggard old woman, and the next it's right up in Keith's face. He only has a moment to lash out, punching wildly at that thick, rock-solid abdomen before hands close over his shoulders and _pinch,_ digging in deep enough for his arms to go instantly numb.

He swings his legs out and kicks wildly, aiming for spots that would normally cripple a human. The white moth holds him up by his wrists and lets him dangle until his shoulders threaten to pop out of their sockets. Its eyes stare bloody red, unthinking and unfeeling.

"Fuck you," he spits. "We've done _nothing_ —"

"Shut him up," the woman snaps, irritated.

The white moth swings him by his arms and lets him go to fly through the air, landing oddly on one wrist a couple feet away. He's no stranger to small injuries, but the way his hand splays out awkwardly—the line of fire lancing down into his fingers and up to his elbow as it takes all his weight—is more than he's used to. He clutches his arm to his stomach and struggles to catch his breath. A groan claws its way out of his throat before he can crush it down, poison bubbling on his lips.

" _Now._ "  
  
He hardly has time to look up before the moth is on him again. Thick, icy fingers grip at his throat and _squeeze_ , pressing hard enough on the artery that he knows he'll bruise. The tears burning in his eyes are blinding him, he's trying to move away and breathe all at once and it isn't _working_ —

The world bleeds ink in odd places, blurring and blackening before he even realizes he's going to pass out.

He stares up into those eyes and sees his own reflection, warped and shadowed like a negative photograph. He stares and stares, but all he can think of is _Shiro._ If he falls asleep now who knows what will happen to him.

 _Shiro,_ he thinks desperately. _Shiro—_

 

The world spins in excruciating slowness, revolving in a darkness that is neither alien nor his own. He is just.. nothing.

And then, all of a sudden, the fire in his right hand burns bright. He plunges forward towards a ground he can't see and opens his mouth to scream, eyes popping open only to squeeze shut again against the blinding light.

The cloaked woman stands straight. He can hear the rasp of skin over fabric, the rhythmic motions of her wiping her hands off on herself. He cracks open his eyes again and squints.

Sunlight. He's on his knees with his arms tied behind him to something cold. The room, concrete from floor to ceiling, is jammed full of boxes and other odd ends, sheets and enough dust to fill his nose with a horrible itching.

A single rectangular window hangs up near the ceiling in front of him. From there, ribbons of daytime sun stream down to illuminate where he kneels. He can see the shift of a gnarled tree and a blue sky but nothing else.

The woman moves into his line of vision. Daytime is unkind to her; this close, he can see the ashy cracks in her grey skin, the lines of blood on lips so chapped they hurt to look at. Her eyes, sunken in and bloodshot, match long, stringy hair and hands so gnarled they resemble old tree branches.

She smiles and bares yellow, crooked teeth. "The bait wakes."

He glares at her but doesn't bother with a response. She doesn't seem to care for one anyway; after a long pause without him speaking, she turns from him and shuffles somewhere behind him. He hears the groan of hinges as a heavy door opens and slams shut, leaving him in silence and dust.

Carefully, he cranes his neck from side to side. The piles of boxes look flimsy and wet, sagging at their corners and denting in the middle where mold forms. None of the piles are any taller than maybe his hips; if he wants to stack them and make a break for the window, there's a high chance he'll fall and injure himself worse than he is already.

His wrist, while inconvenient, is a pain he can set aside temporarily. The fire of it blends his whole right arm into a sea of numbness, broken only by a low, roaring ache that sends his pulse thrumming. He can set it aside long enough to escape, but if he twists an ankle or injures a foot, he'll be royally fucked.

Because he’s decided. He isn't going to just wait here to die. Moments of paralysis have always been a monster he hates facing; he knows now, in the daylight, that he experienced one last night. He also knows with certainty that it isn't going to happen again.

To give himself up for Shiro is one thing, but to use him as a means to kill them all? _Fuck that._

 _It always comes back to Discovery Channel survival shows_ , he thinks grimly. He takes a full mental catalog of his body's state the way he's learned to, identifying the numbness spreading below the knee and the focused, heavy pain in his wrist. Other than that, he is whole for now.

For now.

With his own issues addressed, the next step is to learn as much as he can about his environment. Careful not to yank against his sprained wrist, he leans forward and angles himself to his left, craning his head to see behind him. Nothing but more dusty shit, useless and moldy, and a thick, sealed metal door with enough locks to give his half-baked lockpicking skills a run for their money.

The door handle jiggles ever so slightly as he watches. There’s the unmistakable _clang_ of tumblers and bolts shifting in their places before the hinges groan again, opening inward to reveal..

Keith grits his teeth. “ _You_.”

The white-haired man gives him a bored once-over, letting the door slam behind him. He’s got a water bottle in one hand and a piece of bread in the other—food for the prisoner.

“Me,” he echoes flatly. Coming around the concrete pillar Keith is tied to, he stands a few feet away and observes how Keith’s muscles twitch and jump, barely holding back the urge to spring on him and choke him out. He raises one perfect eyebrow and bites into the bread, ripping a shred of crust free. He almost looks as if he could be watching the news.

“I would ask how you feel,” he says, after half the bread is gone, “but I think you look healthy enough. You’re certainly squirming around more than I thought you’d be.”

“Fuck you,” Keith spits. “You can’t have Shiro. I won’t let you ruin him.”  
  
The other eyebrow lifts. “Spare the theatrics. He’s been ruined from the start—I’m just finishing the job. Doing a service, if you will.” He pauses, watching a droplet of condensation slide down the water bottle. “The monster on the inside should match the outside, after all.”  
  
“The only monster here is _you_.”  
  
His mouth twitches. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s both of us? Tell me. Do you lie awake at night and wonder how he’s able to stand having something else invading his mind? Do you ever think about how it must feel to be totally out of control and have your body warp itself into a creature of Hell?” He bares his teeth at Keith in a mockery of a smile. “It hurts more than you know. Every day is a new opportunity to be consumed from the inside out.”  
  
“And you’re going to finish the job,” Keith shoots back. “You’re going to give it all to him. That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re going to draw him out here and push it all onto him when he doesn’t deserve it.” He sees the man in his mind, warm and bright like the sun, smiling and chattering with a hundred people Keith doesn’t know. Popular, smart, _good_ —and they wanted to take it all from him. “You’re fucking _selfish_.”  
  
The man’s mouth twists tight, lips curling up until the skin pinches as if it might tear. His eyes are narrowed slits, the glint of his eyes barely visible.

“You’re wrong,” he seethes. “The selfish one here is _you_ . Thinking you both can traipse around and play games while others rot in the dark. You’re just as disgustingly deluded as every other human. That’s why I’m going to fix this myself.” He smiles then, simple and neat, and tosses the half-eaten bread to Keith’s feet. “Here. It’s yours.”  
  
The distance is just far enough that Keith would have to strain and slump to reach it with his teeth. He glares up at the man unflinching as he uncaps the bottle and splashes Keith’s front with it.

“Some water, to wash it down,” the man says dispassionately. “Think of it as a last meal. My mother likes a good, healthy sacrifice—says they work better for ritual.”  
Even with the sun shining, the coolness of the basement siphons all the heat off Keith’s damp skin. He can feel goosebumps rising under his shirt, crawling down his arms to his numb fingers.

He won’t be affected. He won’t.

“Fuck you,” he snaps again. “I’ll kill you for hurting Shiro. I’ll kill _both_ of you.”  
  
“Fighting words from a helpless meat sack. I do hope you find something else to say eventually.” The man makes a dramatic show of checking his watch. “Well, you can think about it plenty. You’ve got twelve hours before it begins.” He slips past Keith and makes for the door. “Good luck.”

The door slams, echoing in Keith’s ears for long after he goes.

.

Twelve hours, in retrospect, is not a long time. It’s only half a day—the span of time for the sun to make its way across the sky, a perfect division between light and dark.

Keith isn’t an idiot. He doesn’t know what time it is—lost his phone when he walked right out of the house without it, without even shoes on—but he does know that midnight has to be prime time for cutting people apart.

Twelve hours.

He rages against his bonds in fits and starts, believing that maybe if he twists _this_ way or tries to wiggle _that_ , that he might break free. Nothing ever works; whatever they’ve tied him up with is strong enough and knotted in perfect craft that he can’t discern, though he’d like to think all those camping books and wilderness documentaries were useful somehow. The woman is a practiced hand.

 _Practiced in tying up sacrifices_ , he thinks bitterly. _Practiced in preparing bodies and cutting our their hearts._

Thought like that won’t get him very far, though, so when squirming does nothing, he falls to the next best thing.

Attempting to sleep with a sprained wrist and no painkillers is one thing. Attempting to sleep with a sprained wrist while tied up in a basement as bait is another thing entirely. He closes his eyes and does his best to fall asleep in any way he can, but nothing is working. He counts sheep. He counts backwards from one hundred. He imagines himself floating on a huge, puffy cloud in the sky.

Of course, that doesn’t work either. Flying has always made him thirst to go further into the stars, so nothing works.

He slumps against his bonds and stares at the floor. The white-haired man’s bootprints are firmly etched where he stood, creasing a layer of grime and dust that must have been built over whole years of neglect. He can see dust motes even now, past the afternoon light’s illumination, hovering over the ground like derelict boats on a river.

“Shiro,” he sighs. “I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes and rests, just for a moment, to take stock of what to do next. The relief of darkness is an afterthought he disregards—until he opens his eyes and sees it manifested before him, hovering in a space that is one-hundred percent _not_ the basement.

 _You_ , he thinks. The relief that slices through his flesh burns in the best way, bright and hot even as tears fill his eyes. _It’s you._

The darkness reaches for him with open arms, smoothing down the ink-stained surface of his arms and cradling one cheek in a gentle, feathery wisp. The coolness of its touch is like pressing sweaty palms to cold concrete; he leans into the touch and delights at it gliding over his cheeks, trailing back behind his ears into his hair in a soothing, combing motion.

**_Keith_** **.**

_I’m here._

The darkness pats here and there at his head, his cheeks, the front of his clothes. After a long moment of hovering over his chest—a tendril tracing lightly over where his heart beats, tripping it into a faster rhythm—it slips back to a respectful distance.

 ** _Tell us where you are. The others need to know._** It bobs in place, a rolling cloud stopped by invisible walls. **I** ** _need to know._**

He shakes his head, frustrated. _I don’t know. He took me while I slept and I didn’t know, I walked right into it like an idiot and—_

**_Everything is going to be okay._ **

_No_ , he thinks, frantic and angry. With who? Himself, for creating this mess? The white moth, for playing with their lives like children’s toys? _No, it won’t be. I fucked everything up. Listen—you can’t.. You have to stay where you are._

**_You know we cannot do that, Keith._ **

_Do I?_ He tears at his hair, pulling threads of it away in tiny pinpricks of heat. _You’re going to all get yourselves killed. He_ wants _you to come, you have to know that._

The darkness bobs once. **_I know._ **

The frustration in his chest coils tighter into a hot spring. _Then why?_

Between them, soft silence slips wide into a blanket that drapes over everything. There is nothing in this space aside from the two of them—no fabricated worlds or sequences of dreamscape to cross, no tangible distance or time to the dark pocket they reside in. Time unfolds itself as a map that flips and flips, a loose thread on a quilt that unravels endlessly into a long, horizontal line that echoes the silence.

 **_Because you are all that I have_** **,** the darkness whispers. **_There is no place for me in your world, nowhere that something such as I can exist peacefully_**. **_I have lived ages trapped in the minds of men who saw me only as a plague, as the devil himself. You are the first to find something else._ **

_But Shiro—_

**_This is not about Shiro_** **.** **_I know what I am capable of, and feeling things as myself is a treasure I can finally repossess. I know what thoughts are my own._ ** The darkness shudders once, then, as if it truly can feel the cold; a gossamer trail breaks from the mass to reach forward, pinching hair off of Keith’s forehead like a child.

 **_Keith_** **,** it whispers. **_You are beautiful._ **

The hot spring in his chest curls tight enough to bring tears to his eyes. He aches so much that it really feels as if his bones are going to crack and splinter away. He’s bruised and exposed from the inside out, nerves rubbed raw from the waking world’s terrors and the softness of the darkness’ touch.

The odd snarl of affection he feels is almost alien; when did the ties he’d made with Shiro bleed so thoroughly into the moth spirit? How long has he harbored this ache to himself, buried underneath the layers of confusion they faced side by side?

Shiro is first and foremost the object of his affections. He is the sun, a faith Keith found himself believing in even when he was afraid to bask under that golden glow.

But Mothman is..

He knows what he has to say, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thinks. The tears crested on his eyelashes plunge into free fall, one, two. _I’m sorry, but I can’t let them destroy Shiro._

 **_There’s nothing to apologize for. I already know what your choice is—and this is mine._ ** The darkness flares and spills out ink, cool and sweet, to stain Keith’s skin. He watches it bleed to mix in with the other patches, painting his hands and forearms in black and purple.

 **_I will make this right_** **,** the darkness murmurs. **_I will make this right for all of us, but you have to trust me. I will come, and you cannot stop it from happening. This is_ ** **our** **_choice._ **

_No._ No. _I won’t let—_

The negative space they’ve folded themselves into begins to expand, stretching wide enough to thin and splinter with gleaming, wet folds that ooze inward. The darkness recedes, tumbling backwards away from him even as he falls to his knees, hands reaching out—

The space above him splits with a wet squelch and a single eye stares down, huge and bloodshot and _yellow_ —

Keith’s eyes snap open. His face, his clothes, his hair—they’re all cold, slick with something that slips between his lips, and for a moment he fears the worst—

“You’re awake.”

He sucks in a slow, shaky breath. Exhales too fast, compared to the wild thumping of his heart.

Through his wet, stringy bangs, the white-haired man stands with a half-empty bottle in his hand. Water drips freely from the lip of it onto the floor, mixing in with the coating of dust and grime.

“You really did as she predicted,” the man observes. He almost seems fascinated with Keith, gross as he is, slumped and prickling with goosebumps. “I don’t know why I ever assumed otherwise.”

He stares up at the man and gives him a flat expression. He knows better than to goad but he supposes they both know he’s learning, because the man pushes on after a moment of silence.

“The darkness. I can see the traces of it on your skin.”  
  
Keith’s eyes flicker down. His arms are bound behind his back so he can’t see if the ink is real, but he suspects it still isn’t visible anyway.

“You spoke to him,” the man murmurs. “You spoke to him, and your spirit mixes further into what he is. You cannot become him or I, but the trace is permanent. I would know—my mother bears the same.”

The idea of sharing anything with that twisted rag of a woman makes Keith’s skin crawl. He narrows his eyes but doesn’t look away, taking in the imperious twist of the man’s cruel smile.

“Does it disturb you? You and I, we’re linked in the same way as you are to him. Can you feel it under your skin?” His smile widens, baring canines. “Shrapnel of myself trapped in your soul. How poetic.”  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Keith growls. His voice cracks in his throat, graveled from hours of silence. “You aren’t him. You never could be."

The triumph in the man’s smile curdles like old milk, souring until his lips pull down and his nose wrinkles. He looks at Keith like he’s garbage on the side of the road, roadkill to drive over and wash away in a rain.

“No, I suppose not.” He takes a step back. “I would never waste my time with a human like you.”

“What do you want?” The light from outside has long faded, the blue sky purpling and bruising into shadows barely distinguishable from utter black. The gnarled tree limbs shiver under a wind Keith can’t feel—a sensation that he suddenly aches for, to cleanse the invisible grime off of his skin. “Come to gloat?”

“On the contrary,” the man says. “I came to tell you that your friend is on the move. As we speak I can feel him coming through the forest.” He raises both eyebrows. “Alone.”  
  
Of course he is. Shiro wouldn’t want anyone _else_ to be in danger—nevermind that one of his best friends is a giant cryptid, or that they might have something he could use to protect himself. Nevermind that the odds of his own survival are low, so painfully low, without someone at his back.

 _Well._ Keith blinks, tossing his bangs out of his eyes with a flick of his head. _It’ll just have to be me._

He tries not to think about how inadequate that is.

“You don’t seem surprised,” the man observes coolly. “I suppose you wouldn’t be, after trying to tell him not to come. Quite the sweet scene between the two of you—nauseating, really. I would vomit if it didn’t mean compromising my own health.”

“It’s none of your business,” Keith grits out, because the idea of anyone watching their exchange makes his blood boil. What he’s created with Shiro—with _Mothman_ —is theirs and theirs alone.

“Wrong. It’s all my business. Weren’t you listening?” The man shakes his head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m here to move you outside for the ritual. Can’t have you hidden here in the house when your monster of a knight shows up.”

Keith scowls. “Touch me and I’ll kill you.”  
  
“I’m terrified. Really, you should have invested in other threats.”

He braces himself—to do what he isn’t exactly sure, though he trusts in his reflexes—but the man doesn’t come any closer. Instead, he trails behind the pillar where Keith can’t see him. He tenses, shoulders bracing for impact, but it isn’t enough.

There’s the faintest brush of something cool—dry, clammy skin brushing the nap of his neck—and then the world explodes into blinding white and splattered black paint. There’s a ringing in his ears, heavy and loud like the drone of a thousand mosquitoes, sharp enough to drive icepicks deep into his skull and splinter it into millions of pieces.

He wants to open his mouth and _scream._ He wants to claw at his eyes, his ears, anything, but his muscles have all locked up. He’s utterly paralyzed, the pulse of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

The man comes around to the front again. His white hair flickers purple and black with afterimages, but the twisted grin he gives Keith is crisp and utterly pristine.

His lips move slowly. Keith focuses hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, straining against the noise to decipher his words piecemeal.

_You lose._

The world passes in a blur. The afterimages continue to swim in his vision like trailing shadows as he’s untied and hauled to his feet—never mind the absolute agony of his muscles stretching, his blood coursing and rushing to numb, sore feet, the screaming of his insides as he’s forced to bend them oddly and fumble after the man as he’s dragged along. Up two flights of stairs, down a dark hallway and through a thick, oak door into the open air.

The cool wind on his face is a small blessing. He parts dry lips and chokes on lungfuls of wood-smoke and redwood aroma, swallowing it down like water. Heat and grime slice free from his cheeks with a few deft knife strokes of the chill, cutting through his thin, worn pajamas to his bones.

The man doesn’t stop to let him savor it. The mosquitoes in Keith’s head snarl furiously, weighing down the corners of his mind in thick cotton as he’s tugged from a porch down a thin trail that snakes into the darkness of the forest. They’re gone and away into the black before he can spare another choking groan.

When they make it to a small clearing— _the clearing of his dreams_ , he recognizes belatedly—the woman is already there. Her hood is up again, concealing her weathered face, and a knife gleams bright in one gnarled fist. Before her a tall pillar of wood stands, centered inside a ring of dead twigs and curled leaves.

He’s exchanged from the man to his mother in jerky movements. She drags him to the pillar by his hair and forces him to his knees; through the furious white noise clamoring in his skull, he can feel the bite of cords pressing into his sprained wrist again. He groans, but the paralysis under his skin still has him in its clutches.

The woman steps back for a moment. Her thin, papery lips are moving too fast for his eyes to keep track of, shaping words he doesn’t know. With a sharp glare in her son’s direction, she comes forward again.

_Smack._

The motion throws his head to the left, popping something in his neck. Molten fire ripples its way down his spine, node by node, stinging into the base of his back. Keith blinks and lets a stray tear fall from his eyes.

“I need you lucid for this,” the woman snaps. Her voice scrapes against his ears like nails on chalkboard, dry and grating. “It’s what you deserve.”

Keith parts his lips to snarl a retort, but his mouth is dry and his tongue is too big and heavy. He chokes on the words in his throat before gagging up bile and spit, splattering it over his chin onto the ground.

“Fuck you,” he croaks.

The woman looks past him at the sky. Already the full moon hangs above the clearing, swollen white belly bearing down on them. He can only watch through his matted bangs as her mouth twists, gaping to bear her awful, yellowed teeth, and she _smiles._

Keith is no stranger to transformation. He recognizes the awful noises before he even thinks to look past her—envisions his own skin blackening completely, twisting and warping like he’s seen Shiro’s do, over and over, until the shift is tattooed on his eyelids and dreams. The white-haired man claws at the ground as if he might tear every fingernail off, churning it in his fists while he chokes and hunches, knees in the earth.

The past couple hours have been a whirlwind of emotions. Pain and fear, anger and dwindling hope, the soft bittersweet of goodbye—Keith’s been through it all and it still isn’t enough. White wings burst from the moth’s back like breaking eggshells, splintering milky-white and expanding to brush the stars. The tiny, black spots that thread between veins glisten wet like fresh paint; he stares as they ripple along and thinks of those eyes, thousands upon thousands, opening to watch.

He’s already slumped over but he bends further still, straining against his bindings. He spreads his thighs and tips his head forward, spitting the waves of acid that surge up in his throat into the dirt.

His mouth is on fire when he finishes. The white moth stands tall beyond the circle, watching him writhe with unflinching red eyes, and their gazes meet.

**_YuOU WILL ALL DIE._ **

The echoes of Keith’s nightmares have come alive. The moth stretches its wings, flexing its four arms in preparation. The woman’s low rasp curdles into savage chanting, alien syllables that cut and slash over one another like cleavers. She circles where he’s bound once, twice, three times, and then comes forward into the ring with her knife brandished.

He tries to jerk his head away. All it does is push the blade unevenly against his skin, cutting a deep, crooked line from ear to the middle of his cheek. He snarls against the lancing fire and strains as hard as he can, ignoring the furious burn in his wrists where the tendons are sore and twisted. _I won’t let you do this. I_ can’t.

He can only watch as his own blood drips freely from the blade onto the ring of debris. The woman shakes as much free as she can and then brings the knife to her lips, licking away the smear left behind.

Keith’s stomach presses, but there’s nothing left to give.

“My son,” the woman gasps, breaking her own chanting. Her yellow eyes are wild under her hood, twin flames in the darkness. “The ritual is almost complete. _We are close._ ” She huffs a quick breath, excitement dripping from her tongue. “They are coming.”

The white moth tips its head back to the moon and buzzes loud enough to make Keith’s teeth ache.

Trapped where he is, he can only watch as the woman steps toward the moth. She pulls back her sleeve in a deft movement, baring mottled, wrinkly skin that mirrors her face, and raises the knife with the other hand.

Blood spurts freely from where she swings down, scooping out a chunk of her own flesh in a slow, steady sawing motion. Her raspy breathing hits a fever pitch as she screams, voice cracking into octaves unused, but she doesn’t stop. The blade cuts and cuts, pressing through ruined flesh with an awful squelching noise until a sizable chunk has been ripped free.

Acid surges onto Keith’s tongue. He doesn’t try to swallow it back down.

The white moth’s maw twitches at the smell of blood. In the blink of an eye it stands in front of the woman, hands outstretched to grab her by the shoulders. A third arm snaps to hold her mangled limb still. The fourth limb rips the chunk of flesh off from where it hangs by several threads and brings it to its mouth to chew.

The woman pants, groaning and shivering as blood courses down her arm. She’s cut deep enough to expose a fraction of white bone.

After a moment of audible gnashing and swallowing the white moth’s fuzzy mandibles flex open. Blood gleams wet at its maw.

**_mieNEMINEmINEEAT—_ **

_Snap._

“No,” Keith whispers. He can hardly tear his gaze away from the mess of the woman’s arm, but he does. _“No.”_

The bushes at the other end of the clearing stir. When they part, all the air left in Keith’s lungs—thin and fragile as it is, barely enough to keep him focused—slips free, escaping his lips in a single exhale.

Mothman stands tall. The full moon’s light bounces off of his hardened skin, tracing grooves of muscle and solid thorax plating. Three of his arms hang freely at his sides. The fourth is nothing but a gnarled stump.

 _“Shiro,_ ” he breathes.

Mothman doesn’t even look at him. It stands stock-still for a moment, red eyes taking in the sight of the white moth and the mess of blood on its hairy chest, the woman behind it who cackles and whispers to herself as if she’s finally gone mad. All is quiet.

 **_I am here for what is mine._ ** One wing twitches at his side. **_To make a trade._ **

“This is no trade,” the woman wheezes. Her left hand squeezes tight at the elbow of her ruined right; hunched over, she looks barely able to stand. Her blood oozes and oozes, dripping down her knuckles into the dirt. “You are at our mercy—it’s the only reason _he_ is still alive, and you know it.”

Mothman bobs at his knees. **_Be that as it may. Hand him over, and I’ll give you what you want._ ** He takes one step forward into the clearing. **_That is what this is all about, isn’t it? Your humanity. You want it back._ **

The white moth makes an odd, garbled noise, a cross between a buzz and a snarl. Every limb twitches wildly, as if he might spring into the sky at any moment.

**_gIVE it TO ME._ **

“Prove we can trust you,” the woman hisses. “Prove you are ready to sacrifice, and we will let him go.”  
**_What do you want?_ **

“Shiro—” Keith chokes. He tugs at his bonds but they never give. His heart thumps wildly in his chest, racing as if it wants to make a leap and burst through his skin. _He can’t do this. He can’t._ “You—I—”

 **_This is our choice._ ** Twin voices in his head—Shiro’s and the moth spirit’s, intertwined into a single harmony. **_Everything is going to be okay._ **

“Come further and kneel,” the woman demands. “Bare yourself. I want to see the light leave your spirit when you are consumed.”

Mothman takes even, slow steps. He walks the full length of the clearing, feet passing over earth churned by sacrifices and spiraling wings alike, and comes to stop a few feet away from the post Keith is tied to. His eyes bore into Keith’s own, bright as the sun itself.

Then, he kneels.

Keith has never seen a cryptid that wasn’t standing on its own two feet. The impossible majesty of a nightmare fallen to the ground, face staring into the soil, makes his insides crawl and twist as if full of spiders. The acrid flavor on his tongue is all he can taste, all he can breathe. _This is wrong, wrong, wrong._

“Decades we’ve waited for this.” The woman steps back, sliding around the post to where Keith’s tied. “Endless time, and now it is _ours_.”

He doesn’t know what she does behind him. He can only watch, mortified, straining against the ropes until they scrape skin away, as the white moth comes to stand before Mothman. One black hand reaches out and grabs at his red hair, gathering a clump in his fist to yank. Mothman’s head snaps back to bare the soft juncture between his head and plated shoulder.

“Do it,” she hisses behind Keith’s shoulder. _“Now.”_

The white moth’s stained jaws open again. It’s hands flex around Mothman’s shoulders, holding him still as it swings down to rip into his flesh. It’s going to _eat him—_

There’s a knife at Keith’s bonds, pressing as if to cut him free, but they _aren’t_ —

 _No,_ he thinks desperately, tears springing to his eyes. He burns and burns from the inside out, acid and fire and darkness curling and sloshing out of his mouth. _No,_ stop—

Mothman moves at the last second, feinting left before slamming back into the white moth’s head. There’s a choked buzz as he propels himself up and out, throwing the cryptid back several feet with a muffled _crack._

The white moth stumbles, nearly slipping to its knees. Its red eyes blaze like twin bonfires in the night. Its jaws are off-kilter; one mandible hangs by a thread. Black oozes from the open wound like oil.

**_YouyOUYOUYOU—_ **

They collide with the echoes of boulders falling over one another. Plate meets plate, arm grappling arm. Their wings, black and white, flap and throw up dust in a swirling dark cloud that stings Keith’s eyes and blinds him.

An awful buzzing starts up, two twin voices that hum over one another as if trying to drown each other out. Keith squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth against the hum; his whole skull rattles with the weight of it, throttling his bones inside his skin.

 _“No!”_ The woman screams. He feels her blade graze his forearms, biting hot at the exposed skin there, but then there’s an audible _thump_ as it hits the ground. _“You—”_

Keith isn’t able to see them coming through the flying dirt. One moment he’s bound, trapped between two raging cryptids and a woman touched by Hell itself; the next, the ties around his wrists are _loose_ , allowing him to slump forward and force himself around on his ass, coming face to face with—

“Pidge? What’re you—”  
  
“Get down!” She spits. One hand shoots out to squeeze his shoulder, throwing them both sideways.

He crumples and presses all of his weight onto his sprained wrist. The groan that shreds its way through his bile-lined throat burns, but the heat lancing up into his arm is stronger still. Pidge’s eyes flick from his wrist to his face, her mouth puckered in a small _o._

Above them, the woman’s lunging stance is cut short by a huge, hairy arm that knocks her back several feet. Her shriek cuts off into a wheezing gasp as she falls back, hands grasping for a knife out of reach. Bigfoot— _Matt_ —stands above her, ham hock hands curled into fists.

“We have to get out of here,” Pidge hisses. Her fingers tug insistently on Keith’s opposite sleeve, dragging him towards the edge of the circle. “We’re collateral—”

“Shiro,” Keith chokes, finding his voice again. “I’m—I’m not leaving without him.” Them. I won’t without either of them.  
  
Pidge stares at him incredulously. “He’s a fucking cryptid, Keith, for God’s sake—”

 _“No,_ ” he snaps, “I fucking said—”  
  
He tries to get up with his good hand but slips forward in the churned earth, falling onto his left side onto the messy circle made by the woman. As his eyes flick to where a branch has stuck itself into his forearm, drawing blood, an odd flicker of _something_ curls out of the circle. Black and purple, liquid and gas.

Darkness.

His body can’t move fast enough. He tries to prop himself up and move away, but all the circle needs is his open wound. Darkness grows and swells like rising water, oozing out of the matchbox mess like sludge to lick at his arm. The pain of it is immediate, fire and knives and electricity shattering him as that low buzzing fills his ears, pressing and pressing and _pressing_ until something pops and the world settles on flat tone-dial.

He _screams._

In his dreams, the ink on his skin is muted enough to pass as tattoos. Awake, the shadows stick like tar to his arm, slithering up as if it might eat him whole. He can hardly feel, hardly breathe through the mind-numbing fire.

The eyes are everywhere. He’s awake, his eyes are open, but he can still see them in the back of his mind. Wet, bloodshot, open.

The woman falls into his line of vision. Her mouth is a bloody smile, teeth gleaming crimson. She’s laughing.

The noise of Mothman fighting is nothing but a low roar. He rips himself free from the circle and the darkness follows, seeping into his skin like acid. He can hardly tear his gaze away to look up at Pidge. Her tiny hand is still fisted in his shirt, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Her mouth is moving too fast for him to read.

Dirt swirls around them—the cryptids are closer now, forearms bracing and grappling at each other like wrestlers. Already there’s a tear in the white moth’s wing; it oozes darkness too, wet and impossibly bright for how dark it is in comparison to everything natural around it. Mothman bears similar tiny tears in his wings, and a clump of red hair is missing from his head.

They should be evenly matched. Two creatures made of the same spirit, sharing the same madness. They should be mirrors.

The stump of Mothman’s fourth arm is not enough to block the savage blow to his right side. Sharp, cruel nails sink through the hard plating, grappling at the stump until Mothman buzzes a roar. The white moth makes almost no sound at all but Keith can still hear laughter echoing in his head in a wild cacophony.

In an instant, their positions switch. Mothman is closer to the circle—close enough that the oil on Keith’s arm _sings_ , flickering and raising from his skin like a gas flame. His mouth parts and he feels the yell tear up his esophagus, but he can barely hear himself. He can’t hear anything.

Mothman hears him.

Keith is watching him. He’s almost lying on his back, arms curled up close to his chest to protect himself in an odd, nonsensical reflex. He sees Mothman’s wings flutter. He sees him turn his head just enough to catch Keith in his peripheral.

He sees the white moth’s hand come crashing down.

He can’t hear the blow, but he sees it. The force of the white moth ripples through Mothman’s frame, starting at his head and lancing down his spine. He goes oddly still, red eyes going glassy for just a second, but it’s all it takes for the white moth to snap another blow, forcing him to his knees.

Mothman falls back into the edge of the circle. Immediately the darkness begins to reach for him, smothering over his head and dripping down his navy plates in a thick wash. Mothman’s body begins to twitch wildly, hands clenching and unclenching uselessly at his sides.

The white moth falls on top of him, planting its knees on his chest. Keith is close, close enough to them to see the furious red blaze in the moth’s eyes, to see the minute heaving of his chest, the twitching of his ruined mandibles as his hands grip Mothman’s head, preparing to tear it straight off his neck.

_No._

Black hands grip tight into red hair.

_No._

His maw opens wide—not to eat, but to laugh.

_NO, I WON’T LET YOU—_

Keith sees it perfectly in his mind’s eye; the darkness, abated by the one creature capable of controlling it, the one who had crossed the boundary into the human world and knew all of its secrets. Careful hands on his shoulders, plucking at his hair, while the ink that should burn is nothing but silk.

Hands on his cheeks, hands in his soapy hair. Hands clipping a tiny clip, sparkly and pink, onto a loose strand.

**_Keith. You are beautiful._ **

His left hand spasms out. It knocks against something solid, an odd weight in the dirt. A handle.

**_Keith, I—_ **

He swings the blade up. He doesn’t think of the pain, doesn’t think of that bloody, mangled mouth. He doesn’t think at all.

The white moth’s head, leaning in towards Mothman’s as if to kiss him, is too close for Keith to miss.

The eyes in his mind bulge, ballooning outward until they pop. Ink sprays everywhere behind his vision. He’s washed inside out in black and purple fire, razed into a clear, dark slate.

The world sucks away into the black. All he can do is fall with it.

Laughter—the white moth’s laughter—and a child screaming. Crying, moaning, begging.

_Stop. Stop it, please. Father, please—_

Keith stands in the darkness, barely detached from the shadows. He dimly recognizes the inside of the cabin; the walls are lit, illuminating framed photos of a family of three. A man with a small smile, a woman with grey hair and tired eyes, and a boy with white-blonde hair between them. The child in the photographs kneels on the floor, tears dampening his round cheeks.

The man above him is a stranger. Square and tall, he towers over the child without even trying. One hand is still raised, poised at shoulder height, fingers trembling.

_Lotor. Get out of my sight._

The boy scrambles to his feet. He turns and runs without looking back, runs down the hall past Keith for a room he can’t see..

But then he’s inside, closed up with the boy. He hovers somewhere over his shoulder, close enough to read the shaking letters smeared on old notebook paper. A bruise, big and black-blue, stands out against the child’s pale skin.

_I don’t know what’s wrong with father. Mother said she would make him better, but why does he still look sick? He never used to be like this. I want my old father back._

The words roll on and on, black nonsense that smears under the boy’s dripping tears. The ink runs and runs off the page onto his sheets, staining them..

The forest is dark, caught with shadows that stick like wet paper to his skin. The boy is older, taller, but still small enough to hide in the bushes in front of him.

Beyond him, the tall man is on his hands his knees. There isn’t enough light in the clearing to see properly—the moon is caught somewhere above them, trapped behind redwoods—but Keith can still see the way his pores ooze.

The man writhes and screams before he is remade. Black from head to toe, his red eyes stare unseeing into the sky. Wings, jagged at the edges like a shredded napkin, unfurl at his shoulders and expand. Patterns of rippling lines and spots stand, black on black, barely discernible in the vast stretch of ink his shape has taken on.

The boy clutches at his stomach, at his mouth, gasping through his fingers in tiny, desperate pants. A tiny whimper escapes his lips unbidden, a tiny trembling note that the wind almost carries away.

He isn’t quiet enough.

The moth is on him before he can barely make a noise. Mandibles open wide and crunch down on muscle and bone, ripping soft skin apart as if it were nothing. The boy chokes out a single scream before his voice wavers and bubbles away, glassy eyes frozen on the warped face of his own father..

And then there were two.

The images pass faster and faster. Keith runs through the darkness, pushing his way through hot brands that whip at his skin and leave black marks behind. The white moth’s laughter echoes, louder and louder, overlaying the sound of crying until there’s nothing left of it.

He runs through stills: a bloody child in a bed, a bloody man in a bed. A woman praying at a bedside, tears sliding over her lips. Books open to pages of runes, papers scattered across the floor in a frenzy. Circles of chalk on wood, stained with blood and smeared with ink.

_God forgive me. God forgive me. I just wanted my husband to be well._

A man with white hair. A sick man in a bed, his shadow dwindled to nothing. A white moth in the forest. Bloody hands, bloody mouths, blood as the old man is torn to pieces and swallowed down, down, down.

_I just wanted him to be well. I just want him to be well. I just want my son—_

And then there was one.

The laughter in Keith’s head presses at his skull, pushing from the inside out as if it might ooze out of his mouth, his eyes and ears. He parts his lips and chokes, the darkness pouring out of him like tears and saliva, leaking like a sopping sponge.

He’s drowning in the dark. He can’t breathe for the weight of it. His lungs are full to bursting, full enough to slosh and _ache_.

**_Keith. Come back._ **

_Help me,_ he thinks. _Help me, I can’t—_

**_Keith._ **

The weight in his chest evaporates. He sucks in one breath, gasping, tears prickling at his eyelids. **_Open your eyes._ **

It shouldn’t be so easy. It can’t be with the darkness threatening to tear him apart, but the solid presence he cannot see holds back the night. The black is not a curse but a cloak, a soft blanket he can slip off his shoulders.

He sucks in another breath, and another. He opens his eyes.

The white moth stares back at him— _through_ him. The light in his one eye is fading.

Keith stares down at his left hand. Curled tight around the hilt of the blade are his fingers, white-knuckled and scraped. Ink coats the tips of his fingers, bubbling up from where the knife has buried itself in the white moth’s other eye socket.

They look at each other. The white moth is alive still, somehow, but the way his muscles spasm weakly says he’s almost gone. His chest rises and falls rapidly, ruined maw twitching as if chewing on words he can’t say.

The brush against his mind is both familiar and unfamiliar—a friend seen after too many years, a stranger he’s encountered too many times to pass off as unknown. Layers of voices peel back, one after the other, ugly snarls and static he doesn’t recognize until the core is exposed—one voice he recognizes from both his nightmares and the waking world.

**_You.._ **

He sucks in a sharp breath. The white moth’s chest rises in tandem, staccato movement jerking his whole body.

“Me,” he whispers.

 **_You will never understand.. what it means. To be a monster._ ** Another sharp breath. **_It is.. a fate worse than death._ **

Keith stares into the white moth’s eyes. His chest rattles with the smallest of gasps.

**_I am so tired._ **

“Then sleep.” Keith swallows. “Go to sleep, Lotor.”

Lotor’s chest rises. Keith waits, his breath caught in his throat.

It never falls.

A shadow passes in front of the moon. Darkness blankets the clearing, wrapping them up in the softest shadows.

Steadily, slowly, white wings crumble in petals, and the wind carries them away.

Beneath Lotor’s black ash is Mothman. He lies utterly still, arms and wings splayed out as if he might be an angel. His eyes, bright as the sun, stare up at Keith unblinking.

“I’m sorry,” Keith whispers. The tears burning at his eyes begin to fall, splattering over Mothman’s ink-stained chest plates. He can’t say what he’s crying for yet—doesn’t know the extent of the damage that’s been done. He can’t think yet. “I’m sorry.”  
  
**_Keith._ ** Mothman blinks. One hand twitches, reaching up to wipe away his tears. **_Didn’t I tell you? Everything is going to be okay._ **

“No.”

A shift of movement in Keith’s peripheral—the woman, Lotor’s mother, forgotten in the dirt. She lies on her side with a mouth full of blood. Her eyes are frozen on the spot where Lotor’s ashes still lie.

 _“No,”_ she whispers. _“My son—”_

She lunges forward for Keith, hands outstretched as gnarled claws. Her teeth are all bared in a bloody mess, gleaming, slick with spit. She reaches to grab him by the hair.

The exposed chunk of her arm slides right over the ring of darkness.

The flames leap for her like a starving man. Black pools into the hole in her arm, lancing up through her flesh from the inside out. Her eyes bulge like the ones in Keith’s visions, sliding unfocused as her jaw wrenches open. She screams.

Keith watches, frozen, as the ink under her skin traces the paths of arteries and veins. It lances through her so fast that there’s no room to move, no room to think about pulling himself out of the way. He can only sit, utterly still, as the darkness shoots into the rest of her body. A moment later it comes back out of her cloak, up her neck, and fills up behind her eyes.

Her mouth opens wider and wider. Darkness pours out of it like smoke, curling around her shriveling, withered frame.

She twitches once, and melts into flames.

For a moment, nobody breathes. The forest lies utterly still, every branch and needle poised as if frozen in time.

The cloud in front of the moon passes. The clearing fills with silver light again, bright enough to light up Keith’s ruined arms with its reflection.

“Keith.” Pidge wheezes. Her glasses are askew, brown eyes wide behind them. She’s fallen past the circle untouched. “Keith, are you—what’s—”  
  
Keith blinks slowly. He looks from the ash on Mothman’s body to the knife still stuck in his left hand. He looks at the ring of darkness that’s finally settled, having taken what it wanted. The leaf debris of it is nothing but a black mark in the earth.

He looks up at her.

“Pidge,” he breathes. The acid in his mouth sets his words on fire, but the cold air sets them free. “It’s over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then, there was one-half.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


	17. The Best of Both Moths

The hours after Lotor’s death pass in shades of black.

The dirt, churned and smeared with violence, stands as one dull shade against the wet ink on Mothman and Keith’s skin. Black like silence, something stifling and thick.

The ash on the wind, crumbled bits ringing the stake where Keith had been tied, is its own charcoal hue. No leftover malevolence remains now that it’s eaten what it hungered for; Keith’s arms pass over it without an issue. 

Mothman can barely sit up, but he does. His eyes glow unnaturally, twin holes of crimson that Keith has grown to associate with comfort. They blink at each other, two shadows in the night, as the midnight stars erode slowly over the sky—another shade of black, born from purple and blue.

Keith’s words have turned to dust on his tongue. He can’t speak around them, so he settles for what he knows Mothman can still hear.

_ Does.. it hurt? _

Mothman’s wings twitch in the earth. They both know that’s not what Keith’s referring to.

**_It was a passing torch in the night. I will live._ **

All the air rushes out of Keith’s lungs. The tears prickling at the corners of his eyes have already fallen; in their wake, his whole head throbs and pulses with the beat of his heart. He’s struck, distantly, with a recognition of his own dehydration, of his own passing trauma, but that can wait. Everything can. 

_ How do you feel? _

Mothman stares into his eyes.  **_Relieved._ **

“We need to get out of here,” Pidge says. Her voice crumbles coming off of her tongue, but she coughs around it and pushes on. “You need medical attention—both of you.” Matt hovers behind her shoulder and grunts. “Matt can carry both of you.”

“I’m fine to walk.” Keith clears his throat and clenches his left hand’s fingers open and shut. The ink on his skin isn’t fading, but it doesn’t burn any longer. All the fire left with..

“Just Mothman, then.” Her eyes flick over to him. “Unless you can stand?”

Mothman moves his arms slowly over the ground. He buzzes low in his throat, a hum that tickles in Keith’s chest like heavy, distant bass.  **_Perhaps I can, but it would be unwise._ **

“That settles it, then,” Pidge murmurs. She stares at the ripped ground between them all, gaze trailing over the smudged debris and scattering ash. Black on black on black.

They make their way through the forest in slow, heavy movements. Keith’s legs feel as if they’re made of wood; his wrist, a tingling ache compared to the horrific burning of the darkness, weighs at one side like a stone. Pidge holds his other hand in her own, her tiny fingers trembling over his knuckles. She does not flinch from the darkness.

Keith doesn’t know what to expect. These woods have shadowed his nightmares for so long that moving through them should feel like a dream, but it doesn’t. He’s too aware of his mortal body, his weak flesh. He’s cognizant of how awake he is even though he can feel himself floating halfway above his own head. 

He waits the whole way for Lotor to jump out at them, but the trees are painfully still.

Matt doesn’t hesitate to step over the back fence when they reach the yard. Pidge stops at the other side, her right hand frozen over the iron latch. Her left hand squeezes Keith’s tighter.

“Never again,” she whispers. “Don’t do this to me ever again, Keith.”

He swallows. “It wasn’t—I didn’t have a choice.” 

Pidge shakes her head. It’s only then, face moving into the moonlight cast from the Holt’s backyard, that he realizes she’s crying. 

“There’s always a choice. I just didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to choose it.”

“He trusted me to do the right thing.”  
  
“You nearly _died._ ” She whips around then, and Keith flinches at the rage in her eyes. “Does that sound like the right thing to do to you? What if we had really lost you? What then?”

“I didn’t know!” Keith’s voice scrapes against his throat hard enough to ache. “Pidge, I was  _ dreaming.  _ He made me think I was asleep—I didn’t know until it was too late—” He sucks in a ragged breath. 

“I didn’t make that choice,” he whispers. “I know I’ve made a lot of bad ones—I know I should have asked for help a thousand times before this. But I didn’t choose not to—to do  _ this. _ ” He twitches his hand in her grip. 

Pidge stares into his eyes. “But you would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Wouldn’t you, if it meant you could keep everyone safe?”

The redwoods tremble with a passing breeze. A stray needle falls from above them, landing softly in Pidge’s hair. She doesn’t fish it out.

“When Shiro first woke us up, I thought you were already dead.” 

Keith squeezes her fingers tight. She stares at him, through him, seeing something Keith will never know. Her expression melds into emptiness, cracked and fragile with the gentlest downturn of her lips. 

He can’t say sorry for what he’s done. He wouldn’t be able to say it and mean it—not when everything is over now, and all they have left is half a cryptid spirit. He did what he had to, and now they’ll be able to rest, maybe for good this time. There’s nothing to apologize for in that regard.

But he still felt like he has to. He knows the sickness, the unrelenting, crippling fear too well, so he has to apologize. 

“Pidge,” he starts, “I’m—”  
  
“Don’t.” She blinks, the empty mask cracking into pieces. “I already know.”

She turns from him, fingers still squeezing tight in his own, and unlatches the gate. 

They walk hand in hand through the lower level of the house to the steady tick of the grandfather clock; all the lights are on, but there isn’t a breath of anyone’s to be found. Even Rover is conspicuously absent.

The door to the lab is left ajar. They shuffle inside and let it click shut behind them, taking in the familiar scene of Mothman sprawled across the table, of Colleen rushing around him with needles and electrodes and wiring frantically beeping. She’s still in her pajamas and slippers, hair rumpled from sleep. Matt stands beyond her, hollow-eyed and mouth a thin line. He’s got two fingers hooked into Rover’s collar to keep him seated.

Colleen doesn’t look up from where she’s setting up some sort of IV-facsimile, but she sucks in a deep breath and sighs loud enough to rattle Keith’s bones. The bruises under her eyes speak volumes about the night vigil she’s kept in her children’s absence.

Keith comes to a stop next to the table. Mothman’s eyes are closed for once, his wings neatly folded beneath him. His hands are icy-cold but Keith hooks his fingers into the spaces between his fingers anyway.

“We did it,” he whispers. “He’s finally gone.”

“Thank God,” Colleen says. She casts him a tired, open look over the top of a monitor. “Matt told me the news.”  
  
Keith pinches his lips tight and squeezes Mothman’s hand tighter. “I did what I had to,” he says defensively. “There wasn’t anything else I could do.”  
  
“Keith.” She moves around him to administer an injection to Mothman’s neck. A low buzz hums between them all, but the cryptid doesn’t stir. “I’m not angry with you. I just—” She huffs, straightening, and looks him in the eye. “We’re all here for you. I don’t know how long you went with this secret hanging over you, but something tells me it isn’t a problem you found overnight. Am I right?”

He looks away, lips pressed tight, and Colleen’s shoulders sag.

“Nobody should have to carry something like that by themselves,” she says softly. “I know it’s too late to make amends for what’s been done, and I know that you and I have barely met, but I’m no stranger to the things you all get up to. The gene is in my blood, remember?” 

She reaches for him then, and places one hand on his shoulder. The heat of it is almost startling, bleeding through the chill and ache of Keith’s flesh into his very bones. He peeks up through greasy bangs and finds nothing but calm warmth in those eyes, serenity between gentle wrinkles. Colleen Holt is every inch the steadfast faith her children emanate.

“Promise me,” she says. “Promise me that you’ll at least remember us if anything ever comes up again. I don’t care if it’s with yourself or with cryptids or anything. You have us to talk to if nobody else—we won’t turn you away.” 

Her words are ghosts of Pidge’s own fears—ghosts of the truths that used to hang over Keith’s head like fragile shelving. Between the consequential and the inconsequential it was a wonder he didn’t lash out at Lance and the others sooner; between finding his new friends and finding Shiro, it was a miracle he didn’t buckle into a basket case. 

He’d spent so long comparing himself to others—to Shiro, to the cryptid inside of him, to the others who didn’t have to live with these kind of crazy secrets—that he’d forgotten to check in on himself. He had just assumed that there wasn’t any time or reason to. He had to handle it all,  _ alone _ , or..

Or what?

The could-haves, should-haves that build themselves around the truth make walls high enough to smother him. There’s so much he could have changed if he gave more to Pidge, so much he should have done that he simply didn’t because he believed nobody else was equipped to do it. 

But at the end of the day he is just  _ Keith _ . He’s human, fleshy and fragile as the next guy (as much as he hates to admit it), and so there’s not much he can do alone.

_ There’s always a choice. _

He parts his lips and tastes the leftover ash on his tongue, tastes the bittersweet victory of newfound silence and a  _ something  _ that is big enough to share with the Holts, with Shiro, with his housemates, with people who aren’t just himself. 

“I promise,” he croaks. 

Colleen smiles, and the lines around her eyes soften.

The moment between them breaks with the softest static. Keith’s eyes snap to the body between them just in time to see the black-and-blue carapace of Mothman’s shape crack and crumble into dust. The fragments flake away from the table, curling on a wind that none of them can feel, before dissipating into nothing at all.

Shiro shifts, gentle as if waking from a long sleep. His lips part gently, pulling recycled air into battered lungs in a slow, rattling breath, scouring his insides clean all the way down, and then he opens his eyes.

Keith stands utterly still and watches the bleariness clear from Shiro’s vision, his gaze sharpening at the ceiling panels before sliding to his left and training directly on Keith himself. They stare at each other silently, neither breaking contact even to blink.

There are thousands of questions on the tip of Keith’s tongue, millions of words he wants to say, but he doesn’t have the breath for any of them anymore. Looking into the sun has blindsided him, drying up his thoughts in a flash mirage.

Shiro coughs, dry and brittle, and wets his lips to speak.

“Keith.”  
  
“Shiro.”

It’s less reaching and more like falling up—reaching with palms open for the sun, only to find that you’ve fallen straight into the sky, straight into the stars themselves, hot and bright and all-consuming.

One minute he’s frozen at the edge of the table, and the next, he’s slumped forward into Shiro’s open arms. There aren’t any tears this time, nothing but a solid ache of  _ finally  _ and  _ oh god, it’s  _ over. Keith feels it like a swallowed stone, heavy in the most precious way, swelling from the inside out. He closes his eyes and listens to Shiro’s deep breaths and imagines him swallowing the stone too, sharing the weight of it in the pit of his belly.

_ We’re finally safe. _

Shiro pulls back after what could have been forever. He’s careful not to let go completely, but skims his fingertips over Keith’s ribs and his arms and his cheeks, light and probing for signs of his own struggle. 

Keith looks down at his own forearms. The ink on his skin is gone, dissipated with Mothman’s shift into slumber. 

Shiro traces re-exposed veins. “They’re gone,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” Keith stares at him. There are bruises under Shiro’s eyes, shadows to his face that Keith has come to know come with the shift, but underneath all of it, he doesn’t look.. 

“Do you feel—” He swallows. “How.. how are you?”

Shiro’s fingers freezing over Keith’s wrists. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I’m going to be okay.”  
“And Mothman?”

“He’s also going to be okay.” Shiro looks down into his eyes, dark brown over violet, and Keith knows he can believe him. “Everything is going to be fine.”

.

Time is a fickle creature. It stretches out like an overused rubber band, widening seconds into minutes and minutes into hours, hours into days and weeks. It reaches forward and backward and turns everything into one long breath. It blurs the line between night and day into a single smudge that takes on the color of Shiro’s new scars, of the fading bruises on Keith’s wrists, of the steaming, hot food at the Holt’s Thanksgiving table. Everything flows and flows.

And then it snaps back together again.

Keith flops back on the couch. He’s the first one home for once, so nobody can question when he leaves the lights off and watches the shadows stretch across the carpet. Outside, the chattering of birds and people begin to slope away into the usual afternoon lull, bubbling static he’s grown used to hearing. He closes his eyes and lets it all slip away.

Only one voice remains.

**_Keith_** , he says. **_Do you have any extra glitter pens?_**

_ Not yet. I have to ask Allura where she got her old pack.  _ He shifts on the couch, propping his arms behind his head.  _ Another black one? _

**_Purple, if you can find one. I like purple the best._ **

_ Of course you do. _

He huffs, embarrassed, but doesn’t fall for the jab.  **_We’re coming up the stairs._ **

_ I left it unlocked. _

No sooner does he think the words that he hears the quiet shuffle of the sliding glass door on its frame, the soft  _ click  _ of it opening and shutting again. Keith keeps his eyes closed but pulls his legs up to make room at the foot of the couch. 

The fridge opens and shuts again. A soda can cracks open over at the counter. Socks shuffle across the floor closer, closer, and finally a heavy weight flops onto the couch. Old springs squeal and groan under the sudden weight. 

Shiro slurps his Coke loudly and sets it on the table. “Long day?”

“Something like that.” Lance had woken him up too early with his off-key shower singing, howling away his high spirits to something in Spanish. His new morning workouts with Allura were going well, apparently. “You?”

“Hmm.” Shiro shifts around and suddenly there’s a warm weight on Keith’s chest, pressing from his sternum down his body in a line of heat. “Something like that.”

Keith slides his arms down from behind and curls his fingers carefully into Shiro’s hair, scratching through his scalp with his stubby nails. Shiro hums and burrows deeper into Keith’s shirt. His ear presses right over the spot where Keith’s heart thumps a steady rhythm for him to fall asleep against. If they had time he would, but— 

“New moon tonight,” Keith murmurs. He slides one palm down to cup the side of Shiro’s face, pinky brushing over the shell of his ear. “You gonna be okay?”

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks since the darkness folded in half, slipping two tortured souls into the ether. Two weeks since they’d abandoned that black ring in the forest and ran as far as they could for the Holt’s. Two weeks since Keith had started hearing the darkness whispering in his head, trailing warm fingers over his spine in his dreams.

Two weeks, and no nightmares to show for it. There was no reason to be afraid of the forest anymore, or the changing phases of the moon. Everything beyond the edge of the university was finally  _ theirs. _

“‘Course.” Shiro’s good arm slides up Keith’s side. His fingers line up with the spaces between his ribs, pressing warm trails that make Keith’s heart thump out of time. Will he ever get used to this? “You gonna come along?”

“Is that even a question?”

“Just asking. I didn’t know if—” Shiro squirms slightly. “If it would be weird. I don’t know.”

Okay, so Keith hears Mothman’s spirit in his head sometimes. When they’re in close enough proximity he can hear him as clearly as if he were sleeping, or sitting looking Mothman-In-Shiro’s-Body in the eye. It should have been a weird development—it  _ was  _ one the first time it happened, when Shiro and Mothman switched places in the bathroom and asked Keith for toilet paper from four rooms away—but there aren’t too many things left that Keith could call weird. He’s  _ surrounded _ by weirdness.  

He’s no cryptid, but the idea of being closer to understanding Shiro’s world comforts him. They’re connected by invisible thread now more than ever. The trace of something beyond their world.

_ Mothman. _

“I’ll be there,” Keith murmurs. His fingers trail over Shiro’s lips. “As many times as you want me.”

.

The new moon is rising. 

Shiro steps forward into the clearing. His shadow is a small thing—an odd, dark shape that will soon evaporate into nothing at all. He surveys the ground at his feet and then the sky, taking stock of the stars and a passing bat.

“It’s a good night to fly,” he sighs. “I wish I could feel it.”

Then, he begins to stretch. Methodical movements, starting from his neck into his shoulders, down his arms and torso to his legs.  _ It lessens the cramping later,  _ Mothman had told Keith, once.  _ Tell him he always needs to stretch. _

There are hiccups that can’t be helped—the tightness in one side, the way one arm won’t quite go as high as the other—but Shiro reaches as high as he can for the stars.

Keith steps forward. His fingertips, exposed in his favorite knit gloves, brush the front of Shiro’s jacket. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

He leans up on his tiptoes; Shiro’s hands grip his elbows as he leans in to meet him. They kiss, soft and sweet, the way they should have months ago—the way they’ve learned how to, every time since.

Shiro’s arms fall away. He steps back, far enough away that their clouds of breath don’t mingle anymore, and kneels carefully in the dirt. 

Shades of black, red, and blue.

When Mothman stands, his wings unfurl like blossom petals to fill the air around him. Three arms stretch and flex fingers; the fourth, a permanent stub worn over with black carapace, gleams in the dark. 

**_A good night for flying,_ ** he echoes, and then,  **_do you want to go?_ **

Keith exhales in excitement. “Where?”

**_Anywhere._ **

The new moon is a hole to another dimension, a perfect circle of ink in the middle of heaven. Keith stares up at it longingly.

“Fly me up to the moon,” he breathes. “I want to touch the stars.”  
  
**_Whatever you want_** , Mothman whispers. **_You will have it._**

It’s surprisingly easy to climb into his arms again, even with one missing. Keith wraps his arms around the cryptid’s neck and leans in close, resting his forehead on his chest. Mothman’s arms are tight around him, a secure princess carry that cradles him close. 

Mothman crouches towards the earth and then springs up, up, stretching for the open sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, big thank you to everyone who waited for me to finish this. My writing preferences have changed a bit from the beginning of this fic to what I'm doing now (can you tell.. haha..) but I hope I was able to bring a satisfying end to our boys and their mothscapade. Maybe I'll do more with bugboy at a later date, but for now, thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Stay updated with my projects (or talk to me about cryptid!Shiro) on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/)


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